THE  WOMAN  WITH   THE  FAN 


.THE  WOMAN 
WITH  THE  FAN 


By 

ROBERT   HICHENS 

Author  of  "Felix,"  "Tongues  of  Conscience,"  etc. 


"Tutto  al  mondo  i  vano: 

N6  Tamore  ogni  dolcezza." 

OABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO. 


J^#^ 


FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1 904 
By  Robert  S.  Hichens 

^11  rights  reserved 

This  Edition  Published  in  March,  1904 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  FAN 


IN  a  large  and  cool  drawing-room  of  London  a  few 
people  were  scattered  about,  listening  to  a  soprano 
voice  that  was  singing  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
piano.  The  sound  of  the  voice  came  from  an  inner  room, 
towards  which  most  of  these  people  were  looking  ear- 
nestly. Only  one  or  two  seemed  indifferent  to  the  fas- 
cination of  the  singer. 

A  little  woman,  with  oily  black  hair  and  enormous 
dark  eyes,  leaned  back  on  a  sofa,  playing  with  a  scarlet 
fan  and  glancing  sideways  at  a  thin,  elderly  man,  who 
gazed  into  the  distance  from  which  the  voice  came.  His 
mouth  worked  slightly  under  his  stiff  white  moustache, 
and  his  eyes,  in  colour  a  faded  blue,  were  fixed  and 
stern.  Upon  his  knees  his  thin  and  lemon-coloured 
hands  twitched  nervously,  as  if  they  longed  to  grasp 
something  and  hold  it  fast.  The  little  dark  woman 
glanced  down  at  these  hands,  and  then  sharply  up  at  the 
elderly  man's  face.  A  faint  and  malicious  smile  curved 
her  full  lips,  which  were  artificially  reddened,  and  she 
turned  her  shoulder  to  him  with  deUberation  and  looked 
about  the  room. 

On  all  the  faces  in  it,  except  one,  she  perceived  in- 
tent expressions.  A  sleek  and  plump  man,  with  hanging 
cheeks,  a  hooked  nose,  and  hair  slightly  tinged  with 

I 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

grey  and  parted  in  the  middle,  was  the  exception.  He 
sat  in  a  low  chair,  pouting  his  lips,  playing  with  his 
single  eyeglass,  and  looking  as  sulky  as  an  ill-conditioned 
school-boy.  Once  or  twice  he  crossed  and  uncrossed 
his  short  legs  with  a  sort  of  abrupt  violence,  laid  his 
fat,  white  hands  on  the  arms  of  the  chair,  lifted  them, 
glanced  at  his  rosy  and  shining  nails,  and  frowned.  Then 
he  shut  his  little  eyes  so  tightly  that  the  skin  round 
them  became  wrinkled,  and,  stretching  out  his  feet, 
seemed  almost  angrily  endeavouring  to  fall  asleep. 

A  tall  young  man,  who  was  sitting  alone  not  far  ofif, 
cast  a  glance  of  contempt  at  him,  and  then,  as  if  vexed 
at  having  bestowed  upon  him  even  this  slight  attention, 
leaned  forward,  listening  with  eagerness  to  the  soprano 
voice.  The  little  dark  woman  observed  him  carefully 
above  the  scarlet  feathers  of  her  fan,  which  she  now  held 
quite  still.  His  face  was  lean  and  brown.  His  eyes 
were  long  and  black,  heavy-lidded,  and  shaded  by  big 
lashes  which  curled  upward.  His  features  were  good. 
The  nose  and  chin  were'  short  and  decided,  but  the 
mouth  was  melancholy,  almost  weak.  On  his  upper 
lip  grew  a  short  moustache,  turned  up  at  the  ends.  His 
body  was  slim  and  muscular. 

After  watching  him  for  a  little  while  the  dark  woman 
looked  again  at  the  elderly  man  beside  her,  and  then 
quickly  back  to  the  young  fellow.  She  seemed  to  be 
comparing  the  two  attentions,  of  age  and  of  youth.  Per- 
haps she  found  something  horrible  in  the  process,  for 
she  suddenly  lost  her  expression  of  sparkling  and  bird- 
like sarcasm,  and,  bending  her  arm,  as  if  overcome  with 
lassitude,  she  let  her  fan  drop  on  her  knees,  and  stared 
moodily  at  the  carpet. 

A  very  tall  woman,  with  snow-white  hair  and  a  face 
in  which  nobility  and  weariness  were  mated,  let  fall  two 
tears,  and  a  huge  man,  with  short,  bronze-coloured  hair 

2 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

and  a  protruding  lower  jaw,  who  was  sitting  opposite  to 
her,  noticed  them  and  suddenly  looked  proud. 

The  light  soprano  voice  went  on  singing  an  Italian 
song  about  a  summer  night  in  Venice,  about  stars,  dark 
waters  and  dark  palaces,  heat,  and  the  sound  of  music, 
and  of  gondoliers  calling  over  the  lagoons  to  their  com- 
rades. It  was  an  exquisite  voice;  not  large,  but  flexible 
and  very  warm.  The  pianoforte  accompaniment  was 
rather  uneasy  and  faltering.  Now  and  then,  when  it 
became  blurred  and  wavering,  the  voice  was  abruptly 
hard  and  decisive,  once  even  piercing  and  almost  shrew- 
ish. Then  the  pianist,  as  if  attacked  by  fear,  played 
louder  and  hurried  the  tempo,  the  little  dark  woman 
smiled  mischievously,  the  white-haired  woman  put  her 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  the  young  man  looked  as 
if  he  wished  to  commit  murder.  But  the  huge  man  with 
the  bronze  hair  went  on  looking  equably  proud. 

When  the  voice  died  away  there  was  distinct,  though 
slight,  applause,  which  partially  drowned  the  accom- 
panist's muddled  conclusion.  Then  a  woman  walked  in 
from  the  second  drawing-room  with  an  angry  expression 
on  her  face. 

She  was  tall  and  slight.  Her  hair  and  eyes  were  light 
yellow-brown,  and  the  former  had  a  natural  wave  in  it. 
Her  shoulders  and  bust  were  superb,  and  her  small  head 
was  beautifully  set  on  a  lovely,  rather  long,  neck.  She 
had  an  oval  face,  with  straight,  delicate  features,  now 
slightly  distorted  by  temper.  But  the  most  remarkable 
thing  about  her  was  her  complexion.  Her  skin  was 
exquisite,  delicately  smooth  and  white,  warmly  white 
like  a  white  rose.  She  did  nothing  to  add  to  its  natural 
beauty,  though  nearly  every  woman  in  London  declared 
that  she  had  a  special  preparation  and  always  slept  in  a 
mask  coated  thickly  with  it.  The  Bond  Street  oracles 
never  received  a  visit  from  her.    She  had  been  born  with 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

an  enchanting  complexion,  a  marvellous  skin.  She  was 
young,  just  twenty-four.  She  let  herself  alone  because 
she  knew  improvement — in  that  direction — was  not  pos- 
sible. The  mask  coated  with  Juliet  paste,  or  Aphrodite 
ivorine,  existed  only  in  the  radiant  imaginations  of  her 
carefully-arranged  acquaintances. 

In  appearance  she  was  a  siren.  By  nature  she  was 
a  siren  too.  But  she  had  a  temper  and  sometimes  showed 
it.    She  showed  it  now. 

As  she  walked  in  slowly  all  the  scattered  people  leaned 
forward,  murmuring  their  thanks,  and  the  men  stood  up 
and  gathered  round  her. 

"Beautiful!  Beautiful!"  muttered  the  thin,  elderly 
man  in  a  hoarse  voice,  striking  his  fingers  repeatedly 
against  the  palms  of  his  withered  hands. 

The  young  man  looked  at  the  singer  and  said  nothing; 
but  the  anger  in  her  face  was  reflected  in  his,  and  mingled 
with  a  flaming  of  sympathy  that  made  his  appearance 
almost  startling.  The  white-haired  woman  clasped  the 
singer's  hands  and  said,  "Thank  you,  dearest!"  in  a  thrill- 
ing voice,  and  the  little  dark  woman  with  the  red  fan 
cried  out,  "Viola,  you  simply  pack  up  Venice,  carry  it 
over  the  Continent  and  set  it  down  here  in  London!" 

Lady  Holme  frowned  slightly. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  you  good-natured  dears," 
she  said  with  an  attempt  at  lightness.  Then,  hearing 
the  thin  rustle  of  a  dress,  she  turned  sharply  and  cast 
an  unfriendly  glance  at  a  mild  young  woman  with  a  very 
pointed  nose,  on  which  a  pair  of  eyeglasses  sat  astride, 
who  came  meekly  forward,  looking  self-conscious,  and 
smiling  with  one  side  of  her  mouth.  The  man  with  the 
protruding  jaw,  who  was  Lord  Holme,  said  to  her,  in  a 
loud  bass  voice, — 

"Thanks,  Miss  Filberte,  thanks." 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  Lord  Holme,"  replied  the  accom- 

4 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

panist  with  a  sudden  air  of  rather  fooHsh  dehght.  "I 
consider  it  an  honour  to  accompany  an  amateur  who 
sings  like  Lady  Holme." 

She  laid  a  shght  emphasis  on  the  word  "amateur." 

Lady  Holme  suddenly  walked  forward  to  an  empty 
part  of  the  drawing-room.  The  elderly  man,  whose 
name  was  Sir  Donald  Ulford,  made  a  movement  as  if 
to  follow  her,  then  cleared  his  throat  and  stood  still 
looking  after  her.  Lord  Holme  stuck  out  his  under  jaw. 
But  Lady  Cardington,  the  white-haired  woman,  spoke  to 
him  softly,  and  he  leaned  over  to  her  and  replied.  The 
sleek  man,  whose  name  was  Mr,  Bry,  began  to  talk 
about  Tschaikowsky  to  Mrs.  Henry  Wolfstein,  the 
woman  with  the  red  fan.  He  uttered  his  remarks  au- 
thoritatively in  a  slow  and  languid  voice,  looking  at  the 
pointed  toes  of  his  shoes.    Conversation  became  general. 

Robin  Pierce,  the  tall  young  man,  stood  alone  for  a 
few  minutes.  Two  or  three  times  he  glanced  towards 
Lady  Holme,  who  had  sat  down  on  a  sofa,  and  was 
opening  and  shutting  a  small  silver  box  which  she  had 
picked  up  from  a  table  near  her.  Then  he  walked  quietly 
up  the  room  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"Why  on  earth  didn't  you  accompany  yourself?"  he 
asked  in  a  low  voice.  "You  knew  what  a  muddler  that 
girl  was,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes.  She  plays  like  a  distracted  black  beetle — horrid 
creature !" 

"Then— why?" 

"I  look  ridiculous  sitting  at  the  piano." 

"Ridiculous — you !" 

"Well,  I  hold  them  far  more  when  I  stand  up.  They 
can't  get  away  from  me  then." 

"And  you'd  rather  have  your  singing  ruined  than  part 
for  a  moment  with  a  scrap  of  your  physical  influence,  of 
the  influence  that  comes  from  your  beauty,  not  your 

5 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

talent — ^your  face,  not  your  soul.    Viola,  you're  just  the 
same." 

"Lady  Holme,"  she  said. 

"E'shr    Why?" 

"My  little  husband's  fussy." 

"And  much  you  care  if  he  is." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do.  He  sprawls  when  he  fusses  and  knocks 
things  over,  and  then,  when  I've  soothed  him,  he  always 
goes  and  does  Sandow  exercises  and  gets  bigger.  And 
he's  big  enough  as  it  is.    I  must  keep  him  quiet." 

"But  you  can't  keep  the  other  men  quiet.  With  your 
face  and  your  voice — " 

"Oh,  it  isn't  the  voice,"  she  said  with  contempt. 

He  looked  at  her  rather  sadly. 

"Why  will  you  put  such  an  exaggerated  value  on 
your  appearance?  Why  will  you  never  allow  that  three- 
quarters  at  least  of  your  attraction  comes  from  something 
else?" 

"What?" 

"Your  personality — your  self." 

"My  soul!"  she  said,  suddenly  putting  on  a  farcically 
rapt  and  yearning  expression  and  speaking  in  a  hollow, 
hungry  voice.    "Are  we  in  the  prehistoric  Eighties?" 

"We  are  in  the  unchanging  world." 

"Unchanging!    My  dear  boy!" 

"Yes,  unchanging,"  he  repeated  obstinately. 

He  pressed  his  lips  together  and  looked  away.  Miss 
Filberte  was  cackling  and  smiling  on  a  settee,  with  a  man 
whose  figure  presented  a  succession  of  curves,  and  who 
kept  on  softly  patting  his  hands  together  and  swaying 
gently  backwards  and  forwards. 

"Well,  Mr  Pierce,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Mr  Pierce!"  he  said,  almost  savagely. 

"Yes,  of  the  English  Embassy  in  Rome,  rising  young 
diplomat  and  full  of  early  Eighty  yearns — " 

6 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"How  the  deuce  can  you  be  as  you  are  and  yet  sing 
as  you  do?"  he  exclaimed,  turning  on  her,  "You  say 
you  care  for  nothing  but  the  outside  of  things — the  husk, 
the  shell,  the  surface.  You  think  men  care  for  nothing 
else.    Yet  when  you  sing  you — you — " 

"What  do  I  do?" 

"It's  as  if  another  woman  than  you  were  singing  in 
you — a  woman  totally  unlike  you,  a  woman  who  believes 
in,  and  loves,  the  real  beauty  which  you  care  nothing 
about." 

"The  real  beauty  that  rules  the  world  is  lodged  in  the 
epidermis,"  she  said,  opening  her  fan  and  smiling  slowly. 
"If  this" — she  touched  her  face — "were  to  be  changed 
into — shall  we  say  a  Filberte  countenance?" 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed. 

"There!  You  see,  directly  I  put  the  matter  before 
you,  you  have  to  agree  with  me!" 

"No  one  could  sing  like  you  and  have  a  face  like  a 
silly  sheep." 

"Poor  Miss  Filberte!  Well,  then,  suppose  me  dis- 
figured and  singing  better  than  ever — what  man  would 
listen  to  me  ?" 

"I  should." 

"For  half  a  minute.  Then  you'd  say,  'Poor  wretch, 
she's  lost  her  voice!'  No,  no,  it's  my  face  that  sings  to 
the  world,  my  face  the  world  loves  to  listen  to,  my  face 
that  makes  me  friends  and — enemies." 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  with  impertinent  directness. 

"It's  my  face  that's  made  Mr.  Robin  Pierce  deceive 
himself  into  the  belief  that  he  only  worships  women  for 
their  souls,  their  lovely  natures,  their — " 

"Do  you  know  that  in  a  way  you  are  a  singularly 
modest  woman?"  he  suddenly  interrupted. 

"Am  I?    How?" 

"In  thinking  that  you  hold  people  only  by  your  ap- 

7 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

pearance,  that  your  personality  has  nothing  to  say  in  the 
matter." 

"I  am  modest,  but  not  so  modest  as  that." 

"Well  then?" 

"Personality  is  a  crutch,  a  pretty  good  crutch;  but  so 
long  as  men  are  men  they  will  put  crutches  second  and — 
something  else  first.  Yes,  I  know  I'm  a  little  bit  vulgar, 
but  everybody  in  London  is." 

"I  wish  you  lived  in  Rome." 

"I've  seen  people  being  vulgar  there  too.  Besides, 
there  may  be  reasons  why  it  would  not  be  good  for  me 
to  live  in  Rome," 

She  glanced  at  him  again  less  impertinently,  and  sud- 
denly her  whole  body  looked  softer  and  kinder. 

"You  must  put  up  with  my  face,  Robin,"  she  added. 
"It's  no  good  wishing  me  to  be  ugly.  It's  no  use.  I 
can't  be." 

She  laughed.    Her  ill-humour  had  entirely  vanished. 

"If  you  were — "  he  said.    "If  you  were — !" 

"What  then?" 

"Do  you  think  no  one  would  stick  to  you — stick  to 
you  for  yourself?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Who  then?" 

"Quite  several  old  ladies.  It's  very  strange,  but  old 
ladies  of  a  certain  class — the  almost  obsolete  class  that 
wears  caps  and  connects  piety  with  black  brocade — like 
me.  They  think  me  *a  bright  young  thing.'  And  so  I 
am. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are.  Sometimes  I  seem  to 
divine  what  you  are,  and  then — then  your  face  is  like  a 
cloud  which  obscures  you — except  when  you  are  sing- 
ing." 

She  laughed  frankly. 

"Poor  Robin!    It  was  always  your  great  fault — trying 

8 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

to  plumb  shallows  and  to  take  high  dives  into  water  half 
a  foot  deep." 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute.    At  last  he  said, — 

"And  your  husband?" 

"Fritz!" 

His  forehead  contracted. 

"Fritz — yes.  What  does  he  do?  Try  to  walk  in  ocean 
depths?" 

"You  needn't  sneer  at  Fritz/'  she  said  sharply. 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Fritz  doesn't  bother  about  shallows  and  depths.  He 
loves  me  absurdly,  and  that's  quite  enough  for  him." 

"And  for  you." 

She  nodded  gravely. 

"And  what  would  Fritz  do  if  you  were  to  lose  your 
beauty?  Would  he  be  like  all  the  other  men?  Would  he 
cease  to  care?" 

For  the  first  time  Lady  Holme  looked  really  thought- 
ful— almost  painfully  thoughtful. 

"One's  husband,"  she  said  slowly.  "Perhaps  he's  dif- 
ferent.   He — he  ought  to  be  different." 

A  faint  suggestion  of  terror  came  into  her  large  brown 
eyes. 

"There's  a  strong  tie,  you  know,  whatever  people  may 
say,  a  very  strong  tie  in  marriage,"  she  murmured,  as  if 
she  were  thinking  out  something  for  herself.  "Fritz 
ought  to  love  me,  even  if — if — " 

She  broke  ofT  and  looked  about  the  room.  Robin 
Pierce  glanced  round  too  over  the  chattering  guests 
sitting  or  standing  in  easy  or  lazy  postures,  smiling 
vaguely,  or  looking  grave  and  indifferent.  Mrs  Wolf- 
stein  was  laughing,  and  yawned  suddenly  in  the  midst 
of  her  mirth.  Lady  Cardington  said  something,  appar- 
ently tragic,  to  Mr  Bry,  who  was  polishing  his  eyeglass 
and  pouting  out  his  dewy  lips.    Sir  Donald  Ulford,  wan- 

9 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

dering  round  the  walls,  was  examining  the  pictures  upon 
them.  Lady  Manby,  a  woman  with  a  pyramid  of  brown 
hair  and  an  aggressively  flat  back,  was  telling  a  story. 
Evidently  it  was  a  comic  history  of  disaster.  Her  ges- 
tures were  full  of  deliberate  exaggeration,  and  she  ap- 
peared to  be  impersonating  by  turns  two  or  three  dif- 
ferent people,  each  of  whom  had  a  perfectly  ridiculous 
personality.  Lord  Holme  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 
His  big  bass  voice  vibrated  through  the  room.  Suddenly 
Lady  Holme  laughed  too. 

"Why  are  you  laughing?"  Robin  Pierce  asked  rather 
harshly.    "You  didn't  hear  what  Lady  Manby  said." 

"No,  but  Fritz  is  so  infectious.  I  believe  there  are 
laughter  microbes.  What  a  noise  he  makes!  It's  really 
a  scandal." 

And  she  laughed  again  joyously. 

"You  don't  know  much  about  women  if  you  think 
any  story  of  Lady  Manby's  is  necessary  to  prompt  my 
mirth.  Poor  dear  old  Fritz  is  quite  enough.  There  he 
goes  again!" 

Robin  Pierce  began  to  look  stiflf  with  constraint,  and 
just  then  Sir  Donald  Ulford,  in  his  progress  round  the 
walls,  reached  the  sofa  where  they  were  sitting. 

"You  are  very  fortunate  to  possess  this  Cuyp,  Lady 
Holme,"  he  said  in  a  voice  from  which  all  resonance  had 
long  ago  departed. 

"Alas,  Sir  Donald,  cows  distress  me!  They  call  up 
sad  memories.  I  was  chased  by  one  in  the  park  at 
Grantoun  when  I  was  a  child.  A  fly  had  stung  it,  so 
it  tried  to  kill  me.  This  struck  me  as  unreason  run  riot, 
and  ever  since  then  I  have  wished  the  Spaniards  would 
go  a  step  farther  and  make  cow-fights  the  National  Pas- 
time.   I  hate  cows  frankly." 

Sir  Donald  sat  down  in  an  armchair  and  looked,  with 
his  faded  blue  eyes,  into  the  eyes  of  his  hostess.     His 

ID 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

drawn  yellow  face  was  melancholy,  like  the  face  of  one 
who  had  long  been  an  invalid.  People  who  knew  him 
well,  however,  said  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with 
him,  and  that  his  appearance  had  not  altered  during  the 
last  twenty  years. 

"You  can  hate  nothing  beautiful,"  he  said  with  a  sort 
of  hollow  assurance. 

"I  think  cows  hideous." 

"Cuyp's?" 

"All  cows.  You've  never  had  one  running  after 
you." 

She  took  up  her  gloves,  which  she  had  laid  down  on 
the  table  beside  her,  and  began  to  pull  them  gently 
through  her  fingers.  Both  Sir  Donald  and  Robin  looked 
at  her  hands,  which  were  not  only  beautiful  in  shape  but 
extraordinarily  intelligent  in  their  movements.  What- 
ever they  did  they  did  well,  without  hesitation  or  bung- 
ling.   Nobody  had  ever  seen  them  tremble. 

"Do  you  consider  that  anything  that  can  be  danger- 
ous for  a  moment  must  be  hideous  for  ever?"  asked  Sir 
Donald,  after  a  slight  pause. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  But  I  truly  think  cows 
hideous — I  truly  do." 

"Don't  put  on  your  gloves,"  exclaimed  Robin  at  this 
moment. 

Sir  Donald  glanced  at  him  and  said, — 

"Thank  you." 

"Why  not?"  said  Lady  Holme. 

It  was  obvious  to  both  men  that  there  was  no  need  to 
answer  her  question.  She  laid  the  gloves  in  her  lap, 
smoothed  them  with  her  small  fingers  and  kept  silence. 
Silence  was  characteristic  of  her.  When  she  was  in 
society  she  sometimes  sat  quite  calmly  and  composedly 
without  uttering  a  word.  After  watching  her  for  a 
minute  or  two,  Sir  Donald  said, — 

II 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"You  must  know  Venice  very  well  and  understand 
it  completely." 

"Oh,  I've  been  there,  of  course." 

"Recently?" 

"Not  so  very  long  ago.  After  my  marriage  Fritz  took 
me  all  over  Europe." 

"And  you  loved  Venice." 

Sir  Donald  did  not  ask  a  question,  he  made  a  state- 
ment. 

"No.  It  didn't  agree  with  me.  It  depressed  me.  We 
were  there  in  the  mosquito  season." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"My  dear  Sir  Donald,  if  you'd  ever  had  a  hole  in  your 
net  you'd  know.  I  made  Fritz  take  me  away  after  two 
days,  and  I've  never  been  back.  I  don't  want  to  have  my 
one  beauty  ruined." 

Sir  Donald  did  not  pay  the  reasonable  compliment. 
He  only  stretched  out  his  lean  hands  over  his  knees,  and 
said, — 

"Venice  is  the  only  ideal  city  in  Europe." 

"You  forget  Paris." 

"Paris!"  said  Sir  Donald.  "Paris  is  a  suburb  of 
London  and  New  York.  Paris  is  no  longer  the 
city  of  light,  but  the  city  of  pornography  and  dress- 
makers." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  exactly  what  pornography  is — 
unless  it's  some  new  process  for  taking  snapshots.  But  I 
do  know  what  gowns  are,  and  I  love  Paris.  The  Venice 
shops  are  failures  and  the  Venice  mosquitoes  are  suc- 
cesses, and  I  hate  Venice." 

An  expression  of  lemon-coloured  amazement  appeared 
upon  Sir  Donald's  face,  and  he  glanced  at  Robin  Pierce 
as  if  requesting  the  answer  to  a  riddle.  Robin  looked 
rather  as  if  he  were  enjoying  himself,  but  the  puzzled 
melancholy  grew  deeper  on  Sir  Donald's  face.    With  the 

12 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

air  of  a  man  determined  to  reassure  his  mind  upon  some 
matter,  however,  he  spoke  again. 

"You  visited  the  European  capitals  ?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  all  of  them." 

"Constantinople  ?" 

"Terrible  place!    Dogs,  dogs,  nothing  but  dogs." 

"Did  you  like  Petersburg?" 

"No,  I  couldn't  bear  it.    I  caught  cold  there." 

"And  that  was  why  you  hated  it?" 

"Yes.  I  went  out  one  night  with  Fritz  on  the  Neva 
to  hear  a  woman  in  a  boat  singing — a  peasant  girl  with 
high  cheek-bones — and  I  caught  a  frightful  chill." 

"Ah!"  said  Sir  Donald.  "What  was  the  song?  I  knew 
a  good  many  of  the  Northern  peasant  songs." 

Suddenly  Lady  Holme  got  up,  letting  her  gloves  fall 
to  the  ground. 

"I'll  sing  it  to  you,"  she  said. 

Robin  Pierce  touched  her  arm. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  not  to  Miss  Filberte's  accom- 
paniment!" 

"Very  well.  But  come  and  sit  where  you  can  see 
me. 

"I  won't,"  he  said  with  brusque  obstinacy. 

"Madman!"  she  answered.  "Anyhow,  you  come.  Sir 
Donald." 

And  she  walked  lightly  away  towards  the  piano,  fol- 
lowed by  Sir  Donald,  who  walked  lightly  too,  but  un- 
certainly, on  his  thin,  sticklike  legs. 

"What  are  you  up  to,  Vi?"  said  Lord  Holme,  as  she 
came  near  to  him. 

"I'm  going  to  sing  something  for  Sir  Donald." 

"Capital!    Where's  Miss  Filberte?" 

"Here  I  am!"  piped  a  thin  alto  voice. 

There  was  a  rustle  of  skirts  as  the  accompanist  rose 
hastily  from  her  chair. 

13 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

"Sit  down,  please,  Miss  Filberte,"  said  Lady  Holme 
in  a  voice  of  ice. 

Miss  Filberte  sat  down  like  one  who  has  been  knocked 
on  the  head  with  a  hammer,  and  Lady  Holme  went  alone 
to  the  piano,  turned  the  button  that  raised  the  music- 
stool,  sat  down  too,  holding  herself  very  upright,  and 
played  some  notes.  For  a  moment,  while  she  played, 
her  face  was  so  determined  and  pitiless  that  Mr  Bry, 
unaware  that  she  was  still  thinking  about  Miss  Filberte, 
murmured  to  Lady  Cardington, — 

"Evidently  we  are  in  for  a  song  about  Jael  with  the 
butter  in  the  lordly  dish  omitted." 

Then  an  expression  of  sorrowful  youth  stole  into  Lady 
Holme's  eyes,  changed  her  mouth  to  softness  and  her 
cheeks  to  curving  innocence.  She  leaned  a  little  way 
from  the  piano  towards  her  audience  and  sang,  looking 
up  into  vacancy  as  if  her  world  were  hidden  there.  The 
song  had  the  clear  melancholy  and  the  passion  of  a 
Northern  night.  It  brought  the  stars  out  within  that 
room  and  set  purple  distances  before  the  eyes.  Water 
swayed  in  it,  but  languidly,  as  water  sways  at  night  in 
calm  weather,  when  the  black  spars  of  ships  at  anchor  in 
sheltered  harbours  are  motionless  as  fingers  of  skeletons 
pointing  towards  the  moon.  Mysterious  lights  lay  round 
a  silent  shore.  And  in  the  wide  air,  on  the  wide  waters, 
one  woman  was  singing  to  herself  of  a  sorrow  that  was 
deep  as  the  grave,  and  that  no  one  upon  the  earth  knew 
of  save  she  who  sang.  The  song  was  very  short.  It  had 
only  two  little  verses.  When  it  was  over,  Sir  Donald, 
who  had  been  watching  the  singer,  returned  to  the  sofa, 
where  Robin  Pierce  was  sitting  with  his  eyes  shut  and, 
again  striking  his  fingers  against  the  palms  of  his  hands, 
said,  "I  have  heard  that  song  at  night  on  the  Neva,  and 
yet  I  never  heard  it  before." 

People  began  getting  up  to  go  away.     It  was  past 

14 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

eleven  o'clock.  Sir  Donald  and  Robin  Pierce  stood 
together,  saying  good-bye  to  Lady  Holme.  As  she  held 
out  her  hand  to  the  former,  she  said, — 

"Oh,  Sir  Donald,  you  know  Russia,  don't  you?" 

"I  do." 

"Then  I  want  you  to  tell  me  the  name  of  that  stuff 
they  carry  down  the  Neva  in  boats — the  stuff  that  has 
such  a  horrible  smell.  That  song  always  reminds  me  of 
it  and  Fritz  can't  remember  the  name." 

"Nor  can  I,"  said  Sir  Donald,  rather  abruptly.  "Good- 
night, Lady  Holme." 

He  walked  out  of  the  room,  followed  by  Robin. 


15 


II 

LORD  HOLME'S  house  was  in  Cadogan  Square. 
When  Sir  Donald  had  put  on  his  coat  in  the  hall 
he  turned  to  Robin  Pierce  and  said, — 

"Which  way  do  you  go?" 

"To  Half  Moon  Street,"  said  Robin. 

"We  might  walk,  if  you  like.  I  am  going  the  same 
way." 

"Certainly." 

They  set  out  slowly.  It  was  early  in  the  year.  Showers 
of  rain  had  fallen  during  the  day.  The  night  was  warm, 
and  the  damp  earth  in  the  Square  garden  steamed  as  if 
it  were  oppressed  and  were  breathing  wearily.  The  sky 
was  dark  and  cloudy,  and  the  air  was  impregnated  with 
a  scent  to  which  many  things  had  contributed,  each 
yielding  a  fragment  of  the  odour  peculiar  to  it.  Rain, 
smoke,  various  trees  and  plants,  the  wet  paint  on  a  rail- 
ing, the  damp  straw  laid  before  the  house  of  an  invalid, 
the  hothouse  flowers  carried  by  a  woman  in  a  passing 
carriage — these  and  other  things  were  represented  in  the 
heavy  atmosphere  which  was  full  of  the  sensation  of  life. 
Sir  Donald  expanded  his  nostrils. 

"London,  London!"  he  said.  "I  should  know  it  if  I 
were  blind." 

"Yes.  The  London  smell  is  not  to  be  confused  with 
the  smell  of  any  other  place.  You  have  been  back  a 
good  while,  I  believe?" 

"Three  years.    I  am  laid  on  the  London  shelf  now." 

"You  have  had  a  long  life  of  work — interesting  work." 

i6 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Yes.  Diplomacy  has  interesting  moments.  I  have 
seen  many  countries.  I  have  been  transferred  from 
Copenhagen  to  Teheran,  visited  the  Sultan  of  Morocco 
at  Fez,  and — "  he  stopped.    After  a  pause  he  added, — 

"And  now  I  sit  in  London  clubs  and  look  out  of  bay 
windows." 

They  walked  on  slowly. 

"Have  you  known  our  hostess  of  to-night  long?"  Sir 
Donald  asked  presently. 

"A  good  while — quite  a  good  while.  But  I'm  very 
much  away  at  Rome  now.  Since  I  have  been  there  she 
has  married" 

"I  have  only  met  her  to  speak  to  once  before  to-night, 
though  I  ha-ve  seen  her  about  very  often  and  heard  her 
sing." 

"Ah!" 

"To  me  she  is  an  enigma,"  Sir  Donald  continued  with 
some  hesitation.    "I  cannot  make  her  out  at  all." 

Robin  Pierce  smiled  in  the  dark  and  thrust  his  hands 
deep  down  in  the  pockets  of  his  overcoat. 

"I  don't  know,"  Sir  Donald  resumed,  after  a  slight 
pause,  "I  don't  know  what  is  your — whether  you  care 
much  for  beauty  in  its  innumerable  forms.  Many  young 
men  don't  I  believe." 

"I  do,"  said  Robin.  "My  mother  is  an  Italian,  you 
know,  and  not  an  Italian  Philistine." 

"Then  you  can  help  me,  perhaps.  Does  Lady  Holme 
care  for  beauty?  But  she  must.  It  is  impossible  that 
she  does  not." 

"Do  you  think  so?    Why?" 

"I  really  cannot  reconcile  myself  to  the  idea  that  such 
performances  as  hers  are  matters  of  chance." 

"They  are  not.  Lady  Holme  is  not  a  woman  who 
chances  things  before  the  cruel  world  in  which  she,  you 
and  I  live,  Sir  Donald." 

17 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Exactly.  I  felt  sure  of  that.  Then  we  come  to  cal- 
culation of  effects,  to  consideration  of  that  very  interest- 
ing question — self-consciousness  in  art." 

"Do  you  feel  that  Lady  Holme  is  self-conscious  when 
she  is  singing?" 

"No.  And  that  is  just  the  point.  She  must,  I  sup- 
pose, have  studied  till  she  has  reached  that  last  stage 
of  accomplishment  in  which  the  self-consciousness 
present  is  so  perfectly  concealed  that  it  seems  to  be 
eliminated." 

"Exactly.  She  has  an  absolute  command  over  her 
means." 

"One  cannot  deny  it.  No  musician  could  contest  it. 
But  the  question  that  interests  me  lies  behind  all  this. 
There  is  more  than  accomplishment  in  her  performance. 
There  is  temperament,  there  is  mind,  there  is  emotion 
and  complete  understanding.  I  am  scarcely  speaking 
strongly  enough  in  saying  complete — perhaps  infinitely 
subtle  would  be  nearer  the  mark.    What  do  you  say?" 

"I  don't  think  if  you  said  that  there  appears  to  be  an 
infinitely  subtle  understanding  at  work  in  Lady  Holme's 
singing  you  would  be  going  at  all  too  far." 

"Appears  to  be?" 

Sir  Donald  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  pavement 
under  a  gas-lamp.  As  the  light  fell  on  him  he  looked 
like  a  weary  old  ghost  longing  to  fade  away  into  the  dark 
shadows  of  the  London  night. 

"You  say  'appears  to  be,'  "  he  repeated. 

"Yes." 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"Well,  would  you  undertake  to  vouch  for  Lady 
Holme's  understanding — I  mean  for  the  infinite  subtlety 
of  it?" 

Sir  Donald  began  to  walk  on  once  more. 

"I  cannot  find  it  in  her  conversation,"  he  said. 

i8 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Nor  can  I,  nor  can  anyone." 

"She  is  full  of  personal  fascination,  of  course." 

"You  mean  because  of  her  personal  beauty?" 

"No,  it's  more  than  that,  I  think.  It's  the  woman 
herself.  She  is  suggestive  somehow.  She  makes  one's 
imagination  work.    Of  course  she  is  beautiful." 

"And  she  thinks  that  is  everything.  She  would  part 
with  her  voice,  her  intelligence — she  is  very  intelligent 
in  the  quick,  frivolous  fashion  that  is  necessary  for  Lon- 
don— that  personal  fascination  you  speak  of,  everything 
rather  than  her  white-rose  complexion  and  the  wave  in 
her  hair." 

"Really,  really?" 

"Yes.  She  thinks  the  outside  everything.  She  be- 
lieves the  world  is  governed,  love  is  won  and  held,  happi- 
ness is  gained  and  kept  by  the  husk  of  things.  She  told 
me  only  to-night  that  it  is  her  face  which  sings  to  us  all, 
not  her  voice;  that  were  she  to  sing  as  well  and  be  an 
ugly  woman  we  should  not  care  to  listen  to  her." 

"H'm!    H'm!" 

"Absurd,  isn't  it?" 

"What  will  be  the  approach  of  old  age  to  her?" 

There  was  a  suspicion  of  bitterness  in  his  voice. 

"The  coming  of  the  King  of  Terrors,"  said  Pierce. 
*'But  she  cannot  hear  his  footsteps  yet." 

"They  are  loud  enough  in  some  ears.  Ah,  we  are 
at  your  door  already?" 

"Will  you  be  good-natured  and  come  in  for  a  little 
while?" 

"I'm  afraid— isn't  it  rather  late?" 

"Only  half-past  eleven." 

"Well,  thank  you." 

They  stepped  into  the  little  hall.  As  they  did  so  a 
valet  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  leading  to  the 
servants'  quarters. 

19 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  he  said  to  Pierce,  "this  note  has 
just  come.  I  was  to  ask  if  you  would  read  it  directly 
you  returned." 

"Will  you  excuse  me?"  said  Pierce  to  Sir  Donald, 
tearing  open  the  envelope. 

He  glanced  at  the  note. 

"It  is  to  ask  you  to  go  somewhere  to-night?"  Sir 
Donald  said. 

"Yes,  but—" 

"I  will  go." 

"Please  don't.  It  is  only  from  a  friend  who  is  just 
round  the  corner  in  Stratton  Street,  If  you  will  not  mind 
his  joining  us  here  I  will  send  him  a  message." 

He  said  a  few  words  to  his  man. 

"That  will  be  all  right.    Do  come  upstairs." 

"You  are  sure  I  am  not  in  the  way?" 

"I  hope  you  will  not  find  my  friend  in  the  way,  that's 
all.  He's  an  odd  fellow  at  the  best  of  times,  and  to-night 
he's  got  an  attack  of  what  he  calls  the  blacks — his  form 
of  blues.  But  he's  very  talented.  Carey  is  his  name — 
Rupert  Carey.    You  don't  happen  to  know  him  ?" 

"No.    If  I  may  say  so,  your  room  is  charming," 

They  were  on  the  first  floor  now,  in  a  chamber  rather 
barely  furnished  and  hung  with  blue-grey  linen,  against 
which  were  fastened  several  old  Italian  pictures  in  black 
frames.  On  the  floor  were  some  Eastern  rugs  in  which 
faded  and  originally  pale  colours  mingled.  A  log  fire 
was  burning  on  an  open  hearth,  at  right  angles  to  which 
stood  an  immense  sofa  with  a  square  back.  This  sofa 
was  covered  with  dull  blue  stuff.  Opposite  to  it  was  a 
large  and  low  armchair,  also  covered  in  blue,  A  Stein- 
way  grand  piano  stood  out  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
It  was  open  and  there  were  no  ornaments  or  photographs 
upon  it.  Its  shining  dark  case  reflected  the  flames  which 
sprang  up  from  the  logs.     Several  dwarf  bookcases  of 

20 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

black  wood  were  filled  with  volumes,  some  in  exquisite 
bindings,  some  paper  covered.  On  the  tops  of  the  book- 
cases stood  four  dragon  china  vases  filled  with  carna- 
tions of  various  colours.  Electric  lights  burned  just 
under  the  ceiling,  but  they  were  hidden  from  sight.  In 
an  angle  of  the  wall,  on  a  black  ebony  pedestal,  stood  an 
extremely  beautiful  marble  statuette  of  a  nude  girl  hold- 
ing a  fan.  Under  this,  on  a  plaque,  was  written,  "Une 
danseiise  de  Ttmisie" 

Sir  Donald  went  up  to  it,  and  stood  before  it  for  two 
or  three  minutes  in  silence. 

"I  see  indeed  you  do  care  for  beauty,"  he  said  at 
length.  "But — forgive  me — that  fan  makes  that  statuette 
wicked." 

"Yes,  but  a  thousand  times  more  charming.  Carey 
said  just  the  same  thing  when  he  saw  it.  I  wonder — 
I  wonder  what  Lady  Holme  would  say." 

They  sat  down  on  the  sofa  by  the  wood  fire. 

"Carey  could  probably  tell  us,"  Pierce  added. 

"Oh,  then  your  friend  knows  Lady  Holme?" 

"He  did  once.  I  believe  he  isn't  allowed  to  now.  Ah, 
here  is  Carey!" 

A  quick  step  was  audible  on  the  stairs,  the  door  was 
opened,  and  a  broad,  middle-sized  young  man,  with  red 
hair,  a  huge  red  moustache  and  fierce  red-brown  eyes, 
entered  swiftly  with  an  air  of  ruthless  determination. 

"I  came,  but  I  shall  be  devilish  bad  company  to- 
night," he  said  at  once,  looking  at  Sir  Donald. 

"We'll  cheer  you  up.  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Sir 
Donald  Ulford— Mr  Rupert  Carey." 

Carey  shook  Sir  Donald  by  the  hand. 

"Glad  to  meet  you,"  he  said  abruptly,  "I've  carried 
your  Persian  poems  round  the  world  with  me.  They 
lay  in  my  trunk  cheek  by  jowl  with  God-forsaken,  glori- 
ous old  Omar." 

21 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

A  dusky  red  flush  appeared  in  Sir  Donald's  hollow 
cheeks. 

"Really,"  he  said,  with  obvious  embarrassment,  "I — 
they  were  a  great  failure.  'Obviously  the  poems  of  a 
man  likely  to  be  successful  in  dealing  with  finance,'  as 
the  Times  said  in  reviewing  them." 

"Well,  in  the  course  of  your  career  you've  done  some 
good  things  for  England  financially,  haven't  you? — not 
very  publicly,  perhaps,  but  as  a  minister  abroad." 

"Yes.  To  come  forward  as  a  poet  was  certainly  a 
mistake." 

"Any  fool  could  see  the  faults  in  your  book.  True 
Persia  is  all  the  same,  though.  I  saw  all  the  faults  and 
read  'em  twenty  times." 

He  flung  himself  down  in  the  big  armchair.  Sir 
Donald  could  see  now  that  there  was  a  shining  of  misery 
in  his  big,  rather  ugly,  eyes. 

"Where  have  you  two  been?"  he  continued,  with  a 
directness  that  was  almost  rude. 

"Dining  with  the  Holmes,"  answered  Pierce. 

"That  rufiian!     Did  she  sing?" 

"Yes,  twice." 

"Wish  I'd  heard  her.  Here  am  I  playing  Saul  without 
a  David.     Many  people  there?" 

"Several.    Lady  Cardington — " 

"That  white-haired  enchantress!  There's  a  Niobe — • 
weeping  not  for  her  children,  she  never  had  any,  but  for 
her  youth.  She  is  the  religion  of  half  Mayfair,  though  I 
don't  know  whether  she's  got  a  religion.  Men  who 
wouldn't  look  at  her  when  she  was  sixteen,  twenty-six, 
thirty-six,  worship  her  now  she's  sixty.  And  she  weeps 
for  her  youth!    Who  else?" 

"Mrs  Wolfstein." 

"A  daughter  of  Israel;  coarse,  intelligent,  brutal  to 
her  reddened  finger-tips.    I'd  trust  her  to  judge  a  singer, 

22 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

actor,  painter,  writer.  But  I  wouldn't  trust  her  with  my 
heart  or  half-a-crown." 

"Lady  Manby." 

"Humour  in  petticoats.  She's  so  infernally  full  of 
humour  that  there's  no  room  in  her  for  anything  else. 
I  doubt  if  she's  got  lungs.  I'm  sure  she  hasn't  got  a 
heart  or  a  brain," 

"But  if  she  is  so  full  of  humour,"  said  Sir  Donald, 
mildly,  "how  does  she — ?" 

"How  does  a  great  writer  fail  over  an  addition  sum? 
How  does  a  man  who  speaks  eight  languages  talk  im- 
becility in  them  all?  How  is  it  that  a  bird  isn't  an  angel? 
I  wish  to  Heaven  we  knew.    Well,  Robin?" 

"Of  course,  Mr  Bry." 

Carey's  violent  face  expressed  disgust  in  every  line. 

"One  of  the  most  finished  of  London's  types,"  he 
exclaimed.  "No  other  city  supplies  quite  the  same  sort 
of  man  to  take  the  colour  out  of  things.  He's  enormously 
clever,  enormously  abominable,  and  should  have  been 
strangled  at  birth  merely  because  of  his  feet.  Why  he's 
not  Chinese  I  can't  conceive;  why  he  dines  out  every 
night  I  can.  He's  a  human  cruet-stand  without  the  oil. 
He's  so  monstrously  intelligent  that  he  knows  what  a 
beast  he  is,  and  doesn't  mind.  Not  a  bad  set  of  people 
to  talk  with,  unless  Lady  Holme  was  in  a  temper  and 
you  were  next  to  her,  or  you  were  left  stranded  with 
Holme  when  the  women  went  out  of  the  dining-room," 

"You  think  Holme  a  poor  talker?"  asked  Sir  Donald. 

"Precious  poor.  His  brain  is  muscle-bound,  I  believe. 
Robin,  you  know  I'm  miserable  to-night  and  you  offer 
me  nothing  to  drink." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Help  yourself.  And,  Sir  Donald, 
what  will  you — ?" 

"Nothing,  thank  you." 

"Try  one  of  those  cigars." 

23 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Sir  Donald  took  one  and  lit  it  quietly,  looking  at 
Carey,  who  seemed  to  interest  him  a  good  deal. 

"Why  are  you  miserable,  Carey?"  said  Pierce,  as  the 
former  buried  his  moustache  in  a  tall  whisky-and-soda. 

"Because  I'm  alive  and  don't  want  to  be  dead.  Reason 
enough." 

"Because  you're  an  unmitigated  egoist,"  rejoined 
Pierce. 

"Yes,  I  am  an  egoist.  Introduce  me  to  a  man  who 
is  not,  will  you?" 

"And  what  about  women?" 

"Many  women  are  not  egoists.  But  you  have  been 
dining  with  one  of  the  most  finished  egoists  in  London 
to-night." 

"Lady  Holme?"  said  Sir  Donald,  shifting  into  the 
left-hand  corner  of  the  sofa. 

"Yes,  Viola  Holme,  once  Lady  Viola  Grantoun,  whom 
I  mustn't  know  any  more." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  you  are  right,  Carey,"  said  Pierce, 
rather  coldly. 

"What!" 

"Can  a  true  and  perfect  egoist  be  in  love?" 

"Certainly.    Is  not  even  an  egoist  an  animal?" 

Pierce's  lips  tightened  for  a  second,  and  his  right  hand 
strained  itself  round  his  knee,  on  which  it  was  lying. 

"And  how  much  can  she  be  in  love?" 

"Very  much." 

"Do  you  mean  with  her  body  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do;  and  with  the  spirit  that  lives  in  it.  I  don't 
believe  there's  any  life  but  this.  A  church  is  more  fan- 
tastic to  me  than  the  room  in  which  Punch  belabours 
Judy.  But  I  say  that  there  is  spirit  in  lust,  in  hunger, 
in  everything.  When  I  want  a  drink  my  spirit  wants  it. 
Viola  Holme's  spirit — a  flame  that  will  be  blown  out  at 
death — takes  part  in  her  love  for  that  great  brute  Holme. 

24 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

And  yet  she's  one  of  the  most  pronounced  egoists  in 
London." 

"Do  you  care  to  tell  us  any  reason  you  may  have  for 
saying  so?"  said  Sir  Donald. 

As  he  spoke,  his  voice,  brought  into  sharp  contrast 
with  the  changeful  and  animated  voice  of  Carey,  sounded 
almost  preposterously  thin  and  worn  out. 

"She  is  always  conscious  of  herself  in  every  situa- 
tion, in  every  relation  of  life.  While  she  loves  even  she 
thinks  to  herself,  'How  beautifully  I  am  loving!'  And 
she  never  forgets  for  a  single  moment  that  she  is  a  fas- 
cinating woman.  If  she  were  being  murdered  she  would 
be  saying  silently,  while  the  knife  went  in,  'What  an 
attractive  creature,  what  an  unreplaceable  personage  they 
are  putting  an  end  to!" 

"Rupert,  you  are  really  too  absurd!"  exclaimed  Pierce, 
laughing  reluctantly. 

"I'm  not  absurd.  I  see  straight.  Lady  Holme  is  an 
egoist — a  magnificent,  an  adorable  egoist,  fine  enough 
in  her  brilliant  selfishness  to  stand  quite  alone." 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  us  that  any  woman  can  do 
that?"  exclaimed  Pierce. 

"Who  am  I  that  I  should  pronounce  a  verdict  upon 
the  great  mystery?    What  do  I  know  of  women?" 

"Far  too  much,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Pierce. 

"Nothing.  I  have  never  been  married,  and  only  the 
married  man  knows  anything  of  women.  The  French- 
men are  wrong.  It  is  not  the  mistress  who  informs,  it 
is  the  loving  wife.  For  me  the  sex  remains  mysterious, 
like  the  heroine  of  my  realm  of  dreams." 

"You  are  talking  great  nonsense,  Rupert." 

"I  always  do  when  I  am  depressed,  and  I  am  very 
specially  depressed  to-night." 

"But  why?    There  must  be  some  very  special  reason." 

"There  is.    I,  too,  dined  out  and  met  at  dinner  a  young 

25 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

man  whose  one  desire  in  life  appears  to  be  to  deprive 
living  creatures  of  life." 

Sir  Donald  moved  slightly. 

''You're  not  a  sportsman,  then,  Mr.  Carey?"  he 
said. 

"Indeed  I  am.  I've  shot  big  game,  the  Lord  forgive 
me,  and  found  big  pleasure  in  doing  it.  Yet  this  young 
man  depressed  me.  He  was  so  robust,  so  perfectly 
happy,  so  supremely  self-satisfied,  and,  according  to  his 
own  account,  so  enormously  destructive,  that  he  made 
me  feel  very  sick.  He  is  married.  He  married  a  widow 
who  has  an  ear-trumpet  and  a  big  shooting  in  Scotland. 
If  she  could  be  induced  to  crawl  in  underwood,  or  stand 
on  a  cairn  against  a  skyline,  I'm  sure  he'd  pot  at  her 
for  the  fun  of  the  thing." 

"What  is  his  name  ?"  asked  Sir  Donald. 

"I  didn't  catch  it.  My  host  called  him  Leo.  He 
has—" 

"Ah!    He  is  my  only  son." 

Pierce  looked  very  uncomfortable,  but  Carey  replied 
calmly, — 

"Really.    I  wonder  he  hasn't  shot  you  long  ago." 

Sir  Donald  smiled. 

"Doesn't  he  depress  you?"  added  Carey. 

"He  does,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  but  scarcely  so  much  as 
I  depress  him." 

"I  think  Lady  Holme  would  hke  him." 

For  once  Sir  Donald  looked  really  expressive,  of  sur- 
prise and  disgust. 

"Oh,  I  can't  think  so!"  he  said. 

"Yes,  yes,  she  would.  She  doesn't  care  honestly  for 
art-loving  men.  Her  idea  of  a  real  man,  the  sort  of  man 
a  woman  marries,  or  bolts  with,  or  goes  ofT  her  head 
for,  is  a  huge  mass  of  bones  and  muscles  and  thews  and 
sinews  that  knows  not  beauty.     And  your  son  would 

26 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

adore  her,  Sir  Donald.  Better  not  let  him,  though. 
Holme's  a  jealous  devil." 

"Totally  without  reason,"  said  Pierce,  with  a  touch  of 
bitterness. 

"No  doubt.  It's  part  of  his  Grand  Turk  nature.  He 
ought  to  possess  a  Yildiz.  He's  out  of  place  in  London 
where  marital  jealousy  is  more  unfashionable  than  pegtop 
trousers." 

He  buried  himself  in  his  glass.     Sir  Donald  rose  to 

go- 

"I  hope  I  may  see  you  again,"  he  said  rather  tenta- 
tively at  parting.    "I  am  to  be  found  in  the  Albany." 

They  both  said  they  would  call,  and  he  slipped  away 
gently. 

"There's  a  sensitive  man,"  said  Carey  when  he  had 
gone.  "A  sort  of  male  Lady  Cardington.  Both  of  them 
are  morbidly  conscious  of  their  age  and  carry  it  about 
with  them  as  if  it  were  a  crime.  Yet  they're  both  worth 
knowing.  People  with  that  temperament  who  don't  use 
hair-dye  must  have  grit.    His  son's  awful." 

"And  his  poems?" 

"Very  crude,  very  faulty,  very  shy,  but  the  real  thing. 
But  he'll  never  publish  anything  again.  It  must  have 
been  torture  to  him  to  reveal  as  much  as  he  did  in  that 
book.  He  must  find  others  to  express  him,  and  such  as 
him,  to  the  world." 

"Lady  Holme  ?" 

"Par  exemple.  Deuced  odd  that  while  the  dumb  under- 
stand the  whole  show  the  person  who's  describing  it 
quite  accurately  to  them  often  knows  nothing  about  it. 
Paradox,  irony,  blasted  eternal  cussedness  of  life!  Did 
you  ever  know  Lady  Ulford?" 

"No." 

"She  was  a  horse-dealer's  daughter." 

"Rupert!" 

27 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"On  my  honour!  One  of  those  women  who  are  all 
shirt  and  collar  and  nattiness,  with  a  gold  fox  for  a  tie- 
pin  and  a  hunting-crop  under  the  arm.  She  was  killed 
schooling  a  horse  in  Mexico  after  making  Ulford  shy  and 
uncomfortable  for  fifteen  years.  Lady  Cardington  and  a 
Texas  cowboy  would  have  been  as  well  suited  to  one 
another.  Ulford's  been  like  a  wistful  ghost,  they  tell  me, 
ever  since  her  death.  I  should  like  to  see  him  and  his 
son  together." 

A  hard  and  almost  vicious  gleam  shone  for  an  instant 
in  his  eyes. 

"You're  as  cruel  as  a  Spaniard  at  a  bull-fight." 

"My  boy,  I've  been  gored  by  the  bull." 

Pierce  was  silent  for  a  minute.  He  thought  of  Lady 
Holme's  white-rose  complexion  and  of  the  cessation  of 
Carey's  acquaintance  with  the  Holmes,  No  one  seemed 
to  know  exactly  why  Carey  went  to  the  house  in  Cadogan 
Square  no  more. 

"For  God's  sake  give  me  another  drink,  Robin,  and 
make  it  a  stiff  one." 

Pierce  poured  out  the  whisky  and  thought, — 

"Could  it  have  been  that?" 

Carey  emptied  the  tumbler  and  heaved  a  long  sigh. 

"When  d'you  go  back  to  Rome?" 

"Beginning  of  July." 

"You'll  be  there  in  the  dead  season." 

"I  like  Rome  then.  The  heat  doesn't  hurt  me  and  I 
love  the  peace.  Antiquity  seems  to  descend  upon  the 
city  in  August,  returning  to  its  own  when  America  is 
far  away." 

Carey  stared  at  him  hard. 

"A  rising  diplomatist  oughtn't  to  live  in  the  past,"  he 
said  bluntly. 

"I  hke  ruins." 

"Unless  they're  women." 

28 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

"If  I  loved  a  woman  I  could  love  her  when  she  became 
what  is  called  a  ruin." 

"If  you  were  an  old  man  who  had  crumbled  gradually 
with  her." 

"As  a  young  man  too.  I  was  discussing — or  rather 
flitting  about,  dinner-party  fashion — that  very  subject 
to-night." 

"With  whom?" 

"Viola." 

"The  deuce !    What  line  did  you  take  ?" 

"That  one  loves — if  one  loves — the  kernel,  not  the 
shell." 

"And  she?" 

"You  know  her — the  opposite." 

"Ah!" 

"And  you,  Carey?" 

"I !  I  think  if  the  shell  is  a  beautiful  shell  and  becomes 
suddenly  broken  it  makes  a  devil  of  a  lot  of  difference 
in  what  most  people  think  of  the  kernel." 

"It  wouldn't  to  me." 

"I  think  it  would." 

"You  take  Viola's  side  then?" 

"And  when  did  I  ever  do  anything  else?    I'm  off." 

He  got  up,  nodded  good-night,  and  was  gone  in  a 
moment.  Pierce  heard  him  singing  in  a  deep  voice  as 
he  went  down  the  stairs,  and  smiled  with  a  faint  con- 
tempt, 

"How  odd  it  is  that  nobody  will  believe  a  man  if  he's 
fool  enough  to  hint  at  the  truth  of  his  true  self,"  he 
thought.    "And  Carey — who's  so  clever  about  people!" 


29 


Ill 

WHEN  the  last  guest  had  grimaced  at  her  and 
left  the  drawing-room,  Lady  Holme  stood 
with  her  hand  on  the  mantelpiece,  facing  a  tall 
mirror.  She  was  alone  for  the  moment.  Her  husband 
had  accompanied  Mrs  Wolfstein  downstairs,  and  Lady 
Holme  could  hear  his  big,  booming  voice  below,  inter- 
rupted now  and  then  by  her  impudent  soprano.  She 
spoke  English  with  a  slight  foreign  accent  which  men 
generally  liked  and  women  loathed.  Lady  Holme  loathed 
it.  But  she  was  not  fond  of  her  own  sex.  She  believed 
that  all  women  were  untrustworthy.  She  often  said  that 
she  had  never  met  a  woman  who  was  not  a  liar,  and 
when  she  said  it  she  had  no  doubt  that,  for  once,  a 
woman  was  speaking  the  truth.  Now,  as  she  heard  Mrs 
Wolfstein's  curiously  improper  laugh,  she  frowned.  The 
face  in  the  mirror  changed  and  looked  almost  old. 

This  struck  her  unpleasantly.  She  kept  the  frown  in 
its  place  and  stared  from  under  it,  examining  her  features 
closely,  fancying  herself  really  an  old  woman,  her  whim- 
sical fascination  dead  in  its  decaying  home,  her  powers 
faded  if  not  fled  forever.  She  might  do  what  she  liked 
then.  It  would  all  be  of  no  use.  Even  the  voice  would 
be  cracked  and  thin,  unresponsive,  unwieldy.  The  will 
would  be  phlegmatic.  If  it  were  not,  the  limbs  and 
features  would  not  easily  obey  its  messages.  The  figure, 
now  beautiful,  would  perhaps  be  marred  by  the  un- 
gracious thickness,  the  piteous  fleshiness  that  Time  often 

30 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

adds  assiduously  to  ageing  bodies,  as  if  with  an  ironic 
pretence  of  generously  giving  in  one  direction  while 
taking  away  in  another.  Decay  would  be  setting  in,  life 
becoming  perpetual  loss.  The  precious  years  would  be 
gone  irrevocably. 

She  let  the  frown  go  and  looked  again  on  her  beauty 
and  smiled.  The  momentary  bitterness  passed.  For 
there  were  many  precious  years  to  come  for  her,  many 
years  of  power.  She  was  young.  Her  health  was  superb. 
Her  looks  were  of  the  kind  that  lasts.  She  thought 
of  a  famous  actress  whom  she  resembled  closely.  This 
actress  was  already  forty-three,  and  was  still  a  lovely 
woman,  still  toured  about  the  world  winning  the  hearts 
of  men,  was  still  renowned  for  her  personal  charm,  wor- 
shipped not  only  for  her  talent  but  for  her  delicious  skin, 
her  great  romantic  eyes,  her  thick  waving  haif. 

Lady  Holme  laughed.  In  twenty  years  what  Robin 
Pierce  called  her  "husk"  would  still  be  an  exquisite  thing, 
and  she  would  be  going  about  without  hearing  the  hor- 
rible tap,  tap  of  the  crutch  in  whose  sustaining  power 
she  really  believed  so  little.  She  knew  men,  and  she  said 
to  herself,  as  she  had  said  to  Robin,  that  for  them  beauty 
lies  in  the  epidermis. 

"Hullo,  Vi,  lookin'  in  the  glass!  'Pon  my  soul,  your 
vanity's  disgustin'.  A  plain  woman  like  you  ought  to 
keep  away  from  such  things — leave  'em  to  the  Mrs  Wolf- 
steins — what?" 

Lady  Holme  turned  round  in  time  to  see  her  husband's 
blunt,  brown  features  twisted  in  the  grimace  which  in- 
variably preceded  his  portentous  laugh. 

"I  admire  Mrs  Wolfstein,"  she  said. 

The  laugh  burst  like  a  bomb. 

"You  admire  another  woman!  Why,  you're  incapa- 
ble of  it.  The  Lord  defend  me  from  hypocrisy,  and 
there's  no   greater   hypocrisy   than   one   woman   takin' 

31 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

Heaven  to  witness  that  she  thinks  another  a  stunnin' 
beauty." 

"You  know  nothing  about  it,  Fritz.  Mrs  Wolfstein's 
eyes  would  be  lovely  if  they  hadn't  th^t  pawnbroking 
expression." 

"Good,  good!  Now  we're  goin'  to  hear  the  voice  of 
truth.    Think  it  went  well,  eh?" 

He  threw  himself  down  on  a  sofa  and  began  to  light 
a  cigarette. 

"The  evening?    No,  I  don't." 

"Why  not?" 

He  crossed  his  long  legs  and  leaned  back,  resting  his 
head  on  a  cushion,  and  puffing  the  smoke  towards  the 
ceiling. 

"They  all  seemed  cheery — what?  Even  Lady  Card- 
ington  only  cried  when  you  were  squallin'." 

It  was  Lord  Holme's  habit  to  speak  irreverently  of 
anything  he  happened  to  admire. 

"She  had  reason  to  cry.  Miss  Filberte's  accompani- 
ment was  a  tragedy.    She  never  comes  here  again." 

"What's  the  row  with  her?  I  thought  her  fingers  got 
about  over  the  piano  awful  quick." 

"They  did — on  the  wrong  notes." 

She  came  and  sat  down  beside  him. 

"You  don't  understand  music,  Fritz,  thank  goodness." 

"I  know  I  don't.    But  why  thank  what's-his-name?" 

"Because  the  men  that  do  are  usually  such  anaemic, 
dolly  things,  such  shaved  poodles  with  their  Sunday 
bows  on." 

"What  about  that  chap  Pierce?  He's  up  to  all  the 
scales  and  thingumies,  isn't  he?" 

"Robin—" 

"Pierce  I  said." 

"And  I  said  Robin." 

Lord  Holme  frowned  and  stuck  out  his  under  jaw. 

32 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

When  he  was  irritated  he  always  made  haste  to  look 
like  a  prize-fighter.  His  prominent  cheek-bones,  and  the 
abnormal  development  of  bone  in  the  lower  part  of  his 
face,  helped  the  illusion  whose  creation  was  begun  by 
his  expression. 

"Look  here,  Vi,"  he  said  grufifly.  "If  you  get  up  to 
any  nonsense  there'll  be  another  Carey  business.  I  give 
you  the  tip,  and  you  can  just  take  it  in  time.  Don't  you 
make  any  mistake.  I'm  not  a  Brenford,  or  a  Godley- 
Halstoun,  or  a  Pennisford,  to  sit  by  and — " 

"What  a  pity  it  is  that  your  body's  so  big  and  your 
intelligence  so  small,"  she  interrupted  gently.  "Why 
aren't  there  Sandow  exercises  for  increasing  the  brain?" 

"I've  quite  enough  brain  to  rub  along  with  very 
well.  If  I'd  chosen  to  take  it  I  could  have  been  under- 
secretary. 

"You've  told  me  that  so  many  times,  old  darling,  and 
I  really  can't  believe  it.  The  Premier's  very  silly.  Every- 
body knows  that.  But  he's  still  got  just  a  faint  idea  of 
the  few  things  the  country  won't  stand.  And  you  are 
one  of  them,  you  truly  are.  You  don't  go  down  even 
with  the  Primrose  League,  and  they  simply  worship  at 
the  shrine  of  the  great  Ar-rar." 

"Fool  or  not,  I'd  kick  out  Pierce  as  I  kicked  out  Carey 
if  I  thought—" 

"And  suppose  I  wouldn't  let  you?" 

Her  voice  had  suddenly  changed.  There  was  in  it  the 
sharp  sound  which  had  so  overwhelmcv.  Miss  Filberte. 

Lord  Holme  sat  straight  up  ani'.  looked  at  his  wife. 

"Suppose — what  ?" 

"Suppose  I  declined  to  let  you  behave  ridiculously  a 
second  time." 

"Ridiculously!  I  like  that!  Do  you  stick  out  that 
Carey  didn't  love  you?" 

"Half  London  loves  me.    I'm  one  of  the  most  attrac- 

33 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

live  women  in  it.  That's  why  you  married  me,  blessed 
boy." 

"Carey's  a  violent  ass.  Red-headed  men  always  are. 
There's  a  chap  at  White's — " 

"I  know,  I  know.  You  told  me  about  him  when  you 
forbade  poor  Mr.  Carey  the  house.  But  Robin's  hair  is 
black  and  he's  the  gentlest  creature  in  diplomacy." 

"I  wouldn't  trust  him  a  yard." 

"Believe  me,  he  doesn't  wish  you  to.  He's  far  too 
clever  to  desire  the  impossible." 

'Then  he  can  stop  desirin'  you." 

"Don't  be  insulting,  Fritz.  Remember  that  by  birth 
you  are  a  gentleman." 

Lord  Holme  bit  through  his  cigarette. 

"Sometimes  I  wish  you  were  an  ugly  woman,"  he 
muttered. 

"And  if  I  were?" 

She  leaned  forward  quite  eagerly  on  the  sofa  and 
her  whimsical,  spoilt-child  manner  dropped  away  from 
her. 

"You  ain't." 

"Don't  be  silly.  I  know  I'm  not,  of  course.  But  if 
I  were  to  become  one?" 

"What?" 

"Really,  Fritz,  there's  no  sort  of  continuity  in  your 
mental  processes.  If  I  were  to  become  an  ugly  woman, 
.what  would  you  feel  about  me  then?" 

*'How  the  deuce  could  you  become  ugly?" 

"Oh,  in  a  hundred  ways.  I  might  have  smallpox  and 
be  pitted  for  life,  or  be  scalded  in  the  face  as  poor  people's 
babies  often  are,  or  have  vitriol  thrown  over  me  as  lots 
of  women  do  in  Paris,  or  any  number  of  things." 

"What  rot!  Who'd  throw  vitriol  over  you,  I  should 
like  to  know?" 

He  lit  a  fresh  cigarette  with  tender  solicitude.  Lady 
Holme  began  to  look  irritated. 

34 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Do  use  your  imagination!"  she  cried. 

"Haven't  got  one,  thank  God!"  he  returned  philo- 
sophically. 

"I  insist  upon  your  imagining  me  ugly.  Do  you  hear, 
I  insist  upon  it." 

She  laid  one  soft  hand  on  his  knee  and  squeezed  his 
leg  with  all  her  might. 

"Now  you're  to  imagine  me  ugly  and  just  the  same 
as  I  am  now." 

"You  wouldn't  be  the  same." 

"Yes,  I  should.  I  should  be  the  same  woman,  with 
the  same  heart  and  feelings  and  desires  and  things  as  I 
have  now.     Only  the  face  would  be  altered." 

"Well,  go  ahead,  but  don't  pinch  so,  old  girl," 

"I  pinch  you  to  make  you  exert  your  mind.  Now 
tell  me  truly — truly;  would  you  love  me  as  you  do  now, 
would  you  be  jealous  of  me,  would  you — " 

"I  say,  wait  a  bit!  Don't  drive  on  at  such  a  rate. 
How  ugly  are  you?" 

"Very  ugly;  worse  than  Miss  Filberte." 

"Miss  Filberte's  not  so  bad." 

"Yes,  she  is,  Fritz,  you  know  she  is.  But  I  mean 
ever  so  much  worse;  with  a  purple  complexion,  perhaps, 
like  Mrs  Armington,  whose  husband  insisted  on  a  judicial 
separation;  or  a  broken  nose,  or  something  wrong  with 
my  mouth — " 

"What  wrong?' 

"Oh,  dear,  anything!  What  VJiomme  qui  rit  had — • 
or  a  frightful  scar  across  my  cheek.  Could  you  love 
me  as  you  do  now?  I  should  be  the  same  woman,  re- 
member." 

"Then  it'd  be  all  the  same  to  me,  I  s'pose.  Let's 
turn  in." 

He  got  up,  went  over  to  the  hearth  on  which  a  small 
wood  fire  was  burning,  straddled  his  legs,  bent  his  knees 

35 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

and  straightened  them  several  times,  thrusting  his  hands 
into  the  pockets  of  his  trousers,  which  were  rather  tight 
and  horsey  and  defined  his  immense  Hmbs.  An  ex- 
pression of  profound  self-satisfaction  illumined  his  face 
as  he  looked  at  his  wife,  giving  it  a  slightly  leery  ex- 
pression as  of  a  shrewd  rustic.  His  large  blunt  features 
seemed  to  broaden,  his  big  brown  eyes  twinkled,  and 
his  lips,  which  were  thick  and  very  red  and  had  a  cleft 
down  their  middle,  parted  under  his  short  bronze  mous- 
tache, exposing  two  level  rows  of  square  white  teeth. 

"It's  jolly  difficult  to  imagine  you  an  ugly  woman," 
he  said,  with  a  deep  chuckle. 

"I  do  wish  you'd  keep  your  legs  still,"  said  Lady 
Holme.  "What  earthly  pleasure  can  it  give  you  to  go 
on  like  that?    Would  you  love  me  as  you  do  now?" 

"You'd  be  jolly  sick  if  I  didn't,  wouldn't  you,  Vi,  eh?" 

"I  wonder  if  it  ever  occurs  to  you  that  you're  hideously 
conceited,  Fritz?" 

She  spoke  with  a  touch  of  real  anger,  real  exaspera- 
tion. 

"No  more  than  any  other  Englishman  that's  worth 
his  salt  and  ever  does  any  good  in  the  world.  I  ain't  a 
timid  molly-coddle,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

He  took  one  large  hand  out  of  his  pocket,  scratched 
his  cheek  and  yawned.  As  he  did  so  he  looked  as  un- 
concerned, as  free  from  self-consciousness,  as  much  a 
slave  to  every  impulse  born  of  passing  physical  sensa- 
tion as  a  wild  animal  in  a  wood  or  out  on  a  prairie. 

"Otherwise  life  ain't  worth  tuppence,"  he  added 
through  his  yawn. 

Lady  Holme  sat  looking  at  him  for  a  moment  in 
silence.  She  was  really  irritated  by  his  total  lack  of 
interest  in  what  she  wanted  to  interest  him  in,  irritated, 
too,  because  her  curiosity  remained  unsatisfied.  But  that 
abrupt  look  and  action  of  absolutely  unconscious  animal- 

36 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

ism,  chasing  the  leeriness  of  the  contented  man's  conceit, 
turned  her  to  softness  if  not  to  cheerfulness.  She  adored 
Fritz  like  that.  His  open-mouthed,  gaping  yawn  moved 
something  in  her  to  tenderness.  She  would  have  liked 
to  kiss  him  while  he  was  yawning  and  to  pass  her  hands 
over  his  short  hair,  which  was  like  a  mat  and  grew  as 
strongly  as  the  hair  which  he  shaved  every  morning 
from  his  brown  cheeks. 

"Well,  what  about  bed,  old  girl?"  he  said,  stretching 
himself. 

Lady  Holme  did  not  reply.  Some  part  of  him,  some 
joint,  creaked  as  he  forced  his  clasped  hands  downward 
and  backward.  She  was  listening  eagerly  for  a  repetition 
of  the  little  sound. 

"What!  Is  mum  the  word?"  he  said,  bending  forward 
to  stare  into  her  face. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  a  footman  came 
in  to  extinguish  the  lights  and  close  the  piano.  By 
mistake  he  let  the  lid  of  the  latter  drop  with  a  bang. 
Lady  Holme,  who  had  just  got  up  to  go  to  bed,  started 
violently.  She  said  nothing  but  stared  at  him  for  an 
instant  with  an  expression  of  cold  rebuke  on  her  face. 
The  man  reddened.  Lord  Holme  was  already  on  the 
stairs.  He  yawned  again  noisily,  and  turned  the  sound 
eventually  into  a  sort  of  roaring  chant  up  and  down 
the  scale  as  he  mounted  towards  the  next  floor.  Lady 
Holme  came  slowly  after  him.  She  had  a  very  indi- 
vidual walk,  moving  from  the  hips  and  nearly  always 
taking  small,  slow  steps.  Her  sapphire-blue  gown  trailed 
behind  her  with  a  pretty  noise  over  the  carpet. 

When  her  French  maid  had  locked  up  her  jewels  and 
helped  her  to  undress,  she  dismissed  her,  and  called  out 
to  Lord  Holme,  who  was  in  the  next  room,  the  door  of 
which  was  slightly  open. 

"Fritz!" 

37 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Girlie?" 

His  mighty  form,  attired  in  pale  blue  pyjamas,  stood 
in  the  doorway.  In  his  hand  he  grasped  a  tooth-brush, 
and  there  were  dabs  of  white  tooth-powder  on  his  cheeks 
and  chin. 

"Finish  your  toilet  and  make  haste." 

He  disappeared.  There  was  a  prolonged  noise  of 
brushing  and  the  gurgling  and  splashing  of  water.  Lady 
Holme  sat  down  on  the  white  couch  at  the  foot  of  the 
great  bed.  She  was  wrapped  in  a  soft  white  gown  made 
like  a  burnous,  a  veritable  Arab  garment,  with  a  white 
silk  hood  at  the  back,  and  now  she  put  up  her  hands 
and,  with  great  precision,  drew  the  hood  up  over  her 
head.  The  burnous,  thus  adjusted,  made  her  look  very 
young.  She  had  thrust  her  bare  feet  into  white  slippers 
without  heels,  and  now  she  drew  up  her  legs  lightly  and 
easily  and  crossed  them  under  her,  assuming  an  Eastern 
attitude  and  the  expression  of  supreme  impassivity  which 
suits  it.  A  long  mirror  was  just  opposite  to  her.  She 
swayed  to  and  fro,  looking  into  it. 

"Allah- Akbar!"  she  murmured.  "Allah-Akbar!  I 
am  a  fatalist.  Everything  is  ordained,  so  why  should  I 
bother?  I  will  live  fpr  the  day.  I  will  live  for  the  night. 
Allah-Akbar,  Allah-Akbar!" 

The  sound  of  water  gushing  from  a  reversed  tumbler 
into  a  full  basin  was  followed  by  the  reappearance  of 
Lord  Holme,  looking  very  clean  and  very  sleepy. 

Lady  Holme  stopped  swaying. 

"You  look  like  a  kid  of  twelve  years  old  in  that  thing, 
Vi,"  he  observed,  surveying  her  with  his  hands  on  his 
hips. 

"I  am  a  woman  with  a  philosophy,"  she  returned  with 
dignity. 

"A  philosophy!    What  the  deuce  is  that?" 

"You  didn't  learn  much  at  Eton  and  Christchurch." 

38 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

"I  learnt  to  use  my  fists  and  to  make  love  to  the 
women." 

"You're  a  brute!"  she  exclaimed  with  most  unphilo- 
sophic  vehemence. 

''And  that's  why  you  worship  the  ground  I  tread  on," 
he  rejoined  equably,  "And  that's  why  I've  always  had 
a  good  time  with  the  women  ever  since  I  stood  six  foot  in 
my  stockin's  when  I  was  sixteen." 

Lady  Holme  looked  really  indignant.  Her  face  was 
contorted  by  a  spasm.  She  was  one  of  those  unfortunate 
women  who  are  capable  of  retrospective  jealousy. 

"I  won't — how  dare  you  speak  to  me  of  those  women?" 
she  said  bitterly.    "You  insult  me." 

"Hang  it,  there's  no  one  since  you,  Vi.  You  know 
that.  And  what  would  you  have  thought  of  a  great, 
hulkin'  chap  like  me  who'd  never — well,  all  right.  I'll 
dry  up.  But  you  know  well  enough  you  wouldn't  have 
looked  at  me." 

"I  wonder  why  I  ever  did." 

"No,  you  don't.  I'm  just  the  chap  to  suit  you.  You're 
full  of  whimsies  and  need  a  sledge-hammer  fellow  to 
keep  you  quiet.  If  you'd  married  that  ass,  Carey,  or 
that—" 

"Fritz,  once  for  all  I  won't  have  my  friends  abused. 
I  allowed  you  to  have  your  own  way  about  Rupert  Carey, 
but  I  will  not  have  Robin  Pierce  or  anyone  else  insulted. 
Please  understand  that.  I  married  to  be  more  free,  not 
more — " 

"You  married  because  you'd  fallen  jolly  well  in  love 
with  me,  that's  why  you  married,  and  that's  why  you're 
a  damned  lucky  woman.  Come  to  bed.  You  won't, 
eh?" 

He  made  a  stride,  snatched  Lady  Holme  up  as  if  she 
were  a  bundle,  and  carried  her  off  to  bed. 

She  was  on  the  point  of  bursting  into  angry  tears, 

39 


THE    WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

but  when  she  found  herself  snatched  up,  her  slippers 
tumbling  oflf,  the  hood  of  the  burnous  falling  over  her 
eyes,  her  face  crushed  anyhow  against  her  husband's 
sinewy  chest,  she  suddenly  felt  oddly  contented,  disin- 
clined to  protest  or  to  struggle. 

Lord  Holme  did  not  trouble  himself  to  ask  what  she 
was  feeling  or  why  she  was  feeling  it. 

He  thought  of  himself — the  surest  way  to  fasten  upon 
a  man  the  thoughts  of  others. 


40 


IV 

ROBIN  PIERCE  and  Carey  were  old  acquaint- 
ances, if  not  exactly  old  friends.  They  had  been 
for  a  time  at  Harrow  together.  Pierce  had  six 
thousand  a  year  and  worked  hard  for  a  few  hundreds, 
Carey  had  a  thousand  and  did  nothing.  He  had  never 
done  anything  definite,  anything  to  earn  a  living.  Yet 
his  talents  were  notorious.  He  played  the  piano  well  for 
an  amateur,  was  an  extraordinarily  clever  mimic,  acted 
better  than  most  people  who  were  not  on  the  stage,  and 
could  write  very  entertaining  verse  with  a  pungent,  sub- 
acid flavour.  But  he  had  no  creative  power  and  no 
perseverance.  As  a  critic  of  the  performances  of  others 
he  was  cruel  but  discerning,  giving  no  quarter,  but 
giving  credit  where  it  was  due.  He  loathed  a  bad  work- 
man more  than  a  criminal,  and  would  rather  have 
crushed  an  incompetent  human  being  than  a  worm. 
Secretly  he  despised  himself.  His  own  laziness  was  as 
disgusting  to  him  as  a  disease,  and  was  as  incurable  as 
are  certain  diseases.  He  was  now  thirty-four  and  realised 
that  he  was  never  going  to  do  anything  with  his  life. 
Already  he  had  travelled  over  the  world,  seen  a  hundred, 
done  a  hundred  things.  He  had  an  enormous  acquaint- 
ance in  Society  and  among  artists;  writers,  actors,  paint- 
ers— all  the  people  who  did  things  and  did  them  well. 
As  a  rule  they  liked  him,  despite  his  bizarre  bluntness 
of  speech  and  manner,  and  they  invariably  spoke  of  him 
as  a  man  of  great  talent;  he  said  because  he  was  so 
seldom  fool  enough  to  do  anything  that  could  reveal 

41 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

incompetence.  His  mother,  who  was  a  widow,  lived  in 
the  north,  in  an  old  family  mansion,  half  house,  half 
castle,  near  the  sea  coast  of  Cumberland.  He  had  one 
sister,  who  was  married  to  an  American. 

Carey  always  declared  that  he  was  that  rara  avis  an 
atheist,  and  that  he  had  been  born  an  atheist.  He 
affirmed  that  even  when  a  child  he  had  never,  for  a 
moment,  felt  that  there  could  be  any  other  life  than  this 
earth-life.  Few  people  believed  him.  There  are  few- 
people  who  can  believe  in  a  child  atheist. 

Pierce  had  a  totally  different  character.  He  seemed 
to  be  more  dreamy  and  was  more  energetic,  talked  much 
less  and  accomplished  much  more.  It  had  always  been 
his  ambition  to  be  a  successful  diplomat,  and  in  many 
respects  he  was  well  fitted  for  a  diplomatic  career.  He 
had  a  talent  for  languages,  great  ease  of  manner,  self- 
possession,  patience  and  cunning.  He  loved  foreign  life. 
Directly  he  set  foot  in  a  country  which  was  not  his  own 
he  felt  stimulated.  He  felt  that  he  woke  up,  that  his  mind 
became  more  alert,  his  imagination  more  lively.  He  de- 
lighted in  change,  in  being  brought  into  contact  with  a 
society  which  required  study  to  be  understood.  His 
present  fate  contented  him  well  enough.  He  liked  Rome 
and  was  liked  there.  As  his  mother  was  a  Roman  he 
had  many  Italian  connections,  and  he  was  far  more  at 
ease  with  Romans  than  with  the  average  London  man. 
His  father  and  mother  lived  almost  perpetually  in  large 
hotels.  The  former,  who  was  enormously  rich,  was  a 
malade  imaginaire.  He  invariably  spoke  of  his  quite 
normal  health  as  if  it  were  some  deadly  disease,  and 
always  treated  himself,  and  insisted  on  being  treated, 
as  if  he  were  an  exceptionally  distinguished  invalid.  In 
the  course  of  years  his  friends  had  learned  to  take  his 
view  of  the  matter,  and  he  was  at  this  time  almost  uni- 
versally spoken  of  as  "that  poor  Sir  Henry  Pierce  whose 

42 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

life  has  been  one  long  martyrdom."  Poor  Sir  Henry 
was  fortunate  in  the  possession  of  a  wife  who  really  was 
a  martyr — to  him.  Nobody  had  ever  discovered  whether 
Lady  Pierce  knew,  or  did  not  know,  that  her  husband 
was  quite  as  well  as  most  people.  There  are  many 
women  with  such  secrets.  Robin's  parents  were  at  pres- 
ent taking  baths  and  drinking  waters  in  Germany.  They 
were  later  going  for  an  "after  cure"  to  Switzerland,  and 
then  to  Italy  to  "keep  warm"  during  the  autumn.  As 
they  never  lived  in  London,  Robin  had  no  home  there 
except  his  little  house  in  Half  Moon  Street.  He  had  one 
brother,  renowned  as  a  polo  player,  and  one  sister,  who 
was  married  to  a  rising  politician.  Lord  Evelyn  Clowes, 
a  young  man  with  a  voluble  talent,  a  peculiar  power  of 
irritating  Chancellors  of  the  Exchequer,  and  hair  so  thick 
that  he  was  adored  by  the  caricaturists. 

Robin  Pierce  and  Carey  saw  little  of  each  other  now, 
being  generally  separated  by  a  good  many  leagues  of 
land  and  sea,  but  when  they  met  they  were  still  fairly 
intimate.  They  had  some  real  regard  for  each  other. 
Carey  felt  at  ease  in  giving  his  violence  to  the  quiet  and 
self-possessed  young  secretary,  who  was  three  years  his 
junior,  but  who  sometimes  seemed  to  him  the  elder  of  the 
two,  perhaps  because  calm  is  essentially  the  senior  of 
storm.  He  had  even  allowed  Robin  to  guess  at  the 
truth  of  his  feeling  for  Lady  Holme,  though  he  had 
never  been  explicit  on  the  subject  to  him  or  to  any  one. 
There  were  moments  when  Robin  wished  he  had  not 
been  permitted  to  guess,  for  Lady  Holme  attracted  him 
far  more  than  any  other  woman  he  had  seen,  and  he  had 
proposed  to  her  before  she  had  been  carried  off  by  her 
husband.  He  admired  her  beauty,  but  he  did  not  believe 
that  it  was  her  beauty  which  had  led  him  into  love.  He 
was  sure  that  he  loved  the  woman  in  her,  the  hidden 
woman  whom  Lord  Holme  and  the  world  at  large — 

43 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

including  Carey — knew  nothing  about.  He  thought  that 
Lady  Holme  herself  did  not  understand  this  hidden 
woman,  did  not  realise,  as  he  did,  that  she  existed.  She 
spoke  to  him  sometimes  in  Lady  Holme's  singing,  some- 
times in  an  expression  in  her  eyes  when  she  was  serious, 
sometimes  even  in  a  bodily  attitude.  For  Robin,  half 
fantastically,  put  faith  in  the  eloquence  of  line  as  a  re- 
vealer  of  character,  of  soul.  But  she  did  not  speak  to 
him  in  Lady  Holme's  conversation.  He  really  thought 
this  hidden  woman  was  obscured  by  the  lovely  window — 
he  conceived  it  as  a  window  of  exquisite  stained  glass, 
jewelled  but  concealing — through  which  she  was  con- 
demned to  look  for  ever,  through  which,  too,  all  men 
must  look  at  her.  He  really  wished  sometimes,  as  he 
had  said,  that  Lady  Holme  were  ugly,  for  he  had  a 
fancy  that  perhaps  then,  and  only  then,  would  the  hidden 
woman  arise  and  be  seen  as  a  person  may  be  seen 
through  unstained,  clear  glass.  He  really  felt  that  what 
he  loved  would  be  there  to  love  if  the  face  that  ruled 
was  ruined;  would  not  only  still  be  there  to  love,  but 
would  become  more  powerful,  more  true  to  itself,  more 
understanding  of  itself,  more  reliant,  purer,  braver.  And 
he  had  learnt  to  cherish  this  fancy  till  it  had  become  a 
little  monomania.  Robin  thought  that  the  world  mis- 
understood him,  but  he  knew  the  world  too  well  to  say 
so.  He  never  risked  being  laughed  at.  He  felt  sure 
that  he  was  passionate,  that  he  was  capable  of  romantic 
deeds,  of  Quixotic  self-sacrifice,  of  a  devotion  that  might 
well  be  sung  by  poets,  and  that  would  certainly  be 
worshipped  by  ardent  women.  And  he  said  to  himself 
that  Lady  Holme  was  the  one  woman  who  could  set 
free,  if  the  occasion  came,  this  passionate,  unusual  and 
surely  admirable  captive  at  present  chained  within  him, 
doomed  to  inactivity  and  the  creeping  weakness  that 
comes  from  enforced  repose. 

44 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Carey's  passion  for  Lady  Holme  had  come  into  being 
shortly  before  her  marriage.  No  one  knew  much  about 
it,  or  about  the  rupture  of  all  relations  between  him  and 
the  Holmes  which  had  eventually  taken  place.  But  the 
fact  that  Carey  had  lost  his  head  about  Lady  Holme  was 
known  to  half  London.  For  Carey,  when  carried  away, 
was  singularly  reckless,  singularly  careless  of  conse- 
quences and  of  what  people  thought.  It  was  difficult  to 
influence  him,  but  when  influenced  he  was  almost  pain- 
fully open  in  his  acknowledgment  of  the  power  that  had 
reached  him.  As  a  rule,  however,  despite  his  apparent 
definiteness,  his  decisive  violence,  there  seemed  to  be 
something  fluid  in  his  character,  something  that  divided 
and  flowed  away  from  anything  which  sought  to  grasp 
and  hold  it.  He  had  impetus  but  not  balance,  swiftness, 
but  a  swiftness  that  was  uncontrolled.  He  resembled  a 
machine  without  a  brake. 

It  was  soon  after  his  rupture  with  the  Holmes  that 
his  intimates  began  to  notice  that  he  was  becoming  in- 
clined to  drink  too  much.  When  Pierce  returned  to 
London  from  Rome  he  was  immediately  conscious  of 
the  slight  alteration  in  his  friend.  Once  he  remonstrated 
with  Carey  about  it.  Carey  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said  abruptly, — 

"My  heart  wants  to  be  drowned." 

Lord  Holme  hated  Carey.  Yet  Lady  Holme  had  not 
loved  him,  though  she  had  not  objected  to  him  more 
than  to  other  men  because  he  loved  her.  She  had  been 
brought  up  in  a  society  which  is  singularly  free  from 
prejudices,  which  has  no  time  to  study  carefully  questions 
of  so-called  honour,  which  has  little  real  religious  feel- 
ing, and  a  desire  for  gaiety  which  perhaps  takes  the 
place  of  a  desire  for  morals.  Intrigues  are  one  of  the 
chief  amusements  of  this  society,  which  oscillates  from 
London  to  Paris  as  the  pendulum  of  a  clock  oscillates 

45 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

from  right  to  left.  Lady  Holme,  however,  happened  to 
be  protected  doubly  against  the  dangers — or  joys  by 
the  way — to  which  so  many  of  her  companions  fell  cheer- 
ful, and  even  chattering,  victims.  She  had  a  husband, 
who  though  extremely  stupid  was  extremely  masterful, 
and,  for  the  time  at  anyrate,  she  sincerely  loved  him. 
She  was  a  faithful  wife  and  had  no  desire  to  be  anything 
else,  though  she  liked  to  be,  and  usually  was,  in  the 
fashion.  But  though  faithful  to  Lord  Holme  she  had, 
as  has  been  said,  both  the  appearance  and  the  tempera- 
ment of  a  siren.  She  enjoyed  governing  men,  and  those 
who  were  governed  by  her,  who  submitted  obviously  to 
the  power  of  her  beauty  and  the  charm  of  manner  that 
seemed  to  emanate  from  it,  and  to  be  one  with  it,  were 
more  attractive  to  her  than  those  who  were  not.  She 
was  inclined  to  admire  a  man  for  loving  her,  as  a  serious 
and  solemn-thinking  woman,  with  bandeaux  and  con- 
victions, admires  a  clergyman  for  doing  his  duty.  Carey 
had  done  his  duty  with  such  fiery  ardour  that,  though 
she  did  not  prevent  her  husband  from  kicking  him  out 
of  the  house,  she  could  not  refrain  from  thinking  well  of 
him. 

Her  thoughts  of  Robin  Pierce  were  perhaps  a  little 
more  confused. 

She  had  not  accepted  him.  Carey  would  have  said 
that  he  was  not  "her  type."  Although  strong  and  active 
he  was  not  the  huge  mass  of  bones  and  muscles  and 
thews  and  sinews,  ignorant  of  beauty  and  devoid  of  the 
love  of  art,  which  Carey  had  described  as  her  ideal. 
There  was  melancholy  and  there  was  subtlety  in  him. 
When  Lady  Holme  was  a  girl  this  melancholy  and 
subtlety  had  not  appealed  to  her  sufficiently  to  induce 
her  to  become  Lady  Viola  Pierce.  Nevertheless,  Robin's 
affection  for  her,  and  the  peculiar  form  it  took — of  ideal- 
ising her  secret  nature  and  wishing  her  obvious  beauty 

46 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

away — had  won  upon  the  egoism  of  her.  Although  she 
laughed  at  his  absurdity,  as  she  called  it,  and  honestly 
held  to  her  Pagan  belief  that  physical  beauty  was  all  in 
all  to  the  world  she  wished  to  influence,  it  pleased  her 
sometimes  to  fancy  that  perhaps  he  was  right,  that  per- 
haps her  greatest  loveliness  was  hidden  and  dwelt  apart. 
The  thought  was  flattering,  and  though  her  knowledge 
of  men  rejected  the  idea  that  such  a  loveliness  alone 
could  ever  command  an  empire  worth  the  ruling,  she 
could  have  no  real  objection  to  being  credited  with  a 
double  share  of  charm — the  charm  of  face  and  manner 
which  everyone,  including  herself,  was  aware  that  she 
possessed,  and  that  other  stranger,  more  dim  and  mys- 
terious charm  at  whose  altar  Robin  burnt  an  agreeably 
perfumed  incense. 

She  had  a  peculiar  power  of  awakening  in  others  that 
which  she  usually  seemed  not  to  possess  herself — imagi- 
nation, passion,  not  only  physical  but  ethereal  and  of 
the  mind;  a  tenderness  for  old  sorrows,  desire  for  distant, 
fleeting,  misty  glories  not  surely  of  this  earth.  She  was 
a  brilliant  suggestionist,  but  not  in  conversation.  Her 
face  and  her  voice,  when  she  sang,  were  luring  to  the 
lovers  of  beauty.  When  she  sang  she  often  expressed 
for  them  the  under-thoughts  and  under-feelings  of  se- 
cretly romantic,  secretly  wistful  men  and  women,  and 
drew  them  to  her  as  if  by  a  spell.  But  her  talk  and 
manner  in  conversation  were  so  unlike  her  singing,  so 
little  accorded  with  the  look  that  often  came  into  her 
eyes  while  she  sang,  that  she  was  a  perpetual  puzzle  to 
such  elderly  men  as  Sir  Donald  Ulford,  to  such  young 
men  as  Robin  Pierce,  and  even  to  some  women.  Thev 
came  about  her  like  beggars  who  have  heard  a  chink 
of  gold,  and  she  showed  them  a  purse  that  seemed  to  be 
empty. 

Was  it  the  milieu  in  which  she  lived,  the  influence  of 

47 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

a  vulgar  and  greedy  age,  which  prevented  her  from 
showing  her  true  self  except  in  her  art?  Or  was  she 
that  stupefying  enigma  sometimes  met  with — an  unin- 
telligent genius? 

There  were  some  who  wondered. 

In  her  singing  she  seemed  to  understand,  to  love,  to 
pity,  to  enthrone.  In  her  life  she  often  seemed  not  to 
understand,  not  to  love,  not  to  pity,  not  to  place  high. 

She  sang  of  Venice,  and  those  who  cannot  even  think 
of  the  city  in  the  sea  without  a  flutter  of  the  heart,  a 
feeling  not  far  from  soft  pain  in  its  tenderness  and  grati- 
tude, listened  to  the  magic  bells  at  sunset,  and  glided 
in  the  fairy  barques  across  the  liquid  plains  of  gold.  She 
spoke  of  Venice,  and  they  heard  only  the  famished  voice 
of  the  mosquito  uttering  its  midnight  grace  before  meat. 

Which  was  the  real  Venice  ? 

Which  was  the  real  woman? 


48 


ON  the  following  day,  which  was  warm  and  damp, 
Lady  Holme  drove  to  Bond  Street,  bought  two 
new  hats,  had  her  hand  read  by  a  palmist  who 
called  himself  "Cupido,"  looked  in  at  the  ladies'  club  and 
then  went  to  Mrs  Wolfstein,  with  whom  she  was  engaged 
to  lunch.  She  did  not  wish  to  lunch  with  her.  She 
disliked  Mrs  Wolfstein  as  she  disliked  most  women,  but 
she  had  not  been  able  to  get  out  of  it,  Mrs  Wolfstein 
had  overheard  her  saying  to  Lady  Cardington  that  she 
had  nothing  particular  to  do  till  four  that  day,  and  had 
immediately  "pinned  her."  Besides  disliking  Mrs  Wolf- 
stein, Lady  Holme  was  a  little  afraid  of  her.  Like  many 
clever  Jewesses,  Mrs  Wolfstein  was  a  ruthless  conver- 
sationalist, and  enjoyed  showing  off  at  the  expense  of 
others,  even  when  they  were  her  guests.  She  had  some- 
times made  Lady  Holme  feel  stupid,  even  feel  as  if  a 
good  talker  might  occasionally  gain,  and  keep,  an  ad- 
vantage over  a  lovely  woman  who  did  not  talk  so  well. 
The  sensation  passed,  but  the  fact  that  it  had  ever  been 
did  not  draw  Lady  Holme  any  closer  to  the  woman  with 
the  "pawnbroking  expression"  in  her  eyes. 

Mrs  Wolfstein  was  not  in  the  most  exclusive  set  in 
London,  but  she  was  in  the  smart  set,  which  is  no  longer 
exclusive,  although  it  sometimes  hopes  it  is.  She  knew 
the  racing  people,  nearly  all  the  most  fashionable  Jews, 
and  those  very  numerous  English  patricians  who  like  to 
go  where  money  is.  She  also  knew  the  whole  of  Upper 
Bohemia,  and  was  a  persona  gratksima  in  that  happy 

49 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

land  of  talent  and  jealousy.  She  entertained  a  great  deal, 
generally  at  modish  restaurants.  Many  French  and  Ger- 
mans were  to  be  met  with  at  her  parties;  and  it  was  im- 
possible to  be  with  either  them  or  her  for  many  minutes 
without  hearing  the  most  hearty  and  whole-souled  abuse 
of  English  aspirations,  art,  letters  and  cooking.  The 
respectability,  the  pictures,  the  books  and  the  boiled 
cabbage  of  Britain  all  came  impartially  under  the  lash. 

Mrs  Wolfstein's  origin  was  obscure.  That  she  was  a 
Jewess  was  known  to  everybody,  but  few  could  say  with 
certainty  whether  she  was  a  German,  a  Spanish,  a  Polish 
or  an  Eastern  Jewess.  She  had  much  of  the  covert 
coarseness  and  open  impudence  of  a  Levantine,  and 
occasionally  said  things  which  made  people  wonder 
whether,  before  she  became  Amalia  Wolfstein,  she  had 
not  perhaps  been — well,  really — something  very  strange 
somewhere  a  long  way  off. 

Her  husband  was  shocking  to  look  at:  small,  mean, 
bald,  Semitic  and  nervous,  with  large  ears  which  curved 
outwards  from  his  head  like  leaves,  and  cheeks  blue 
from  much  shaving.  He  was  said  to  hide  behind  his 
anxious  manner  an  acuteness  that  was  diabolic,  and  to 
have  earned  his  ill-health  by  sly  dissipations  for  which 
he  had  paid  enormous  sums.  There  were  two  Wolfstein 
children,  a  boy  and  a  girl  of  eleven  and  twelve;  small, 
swarthy,  froglike,  self-possessed.  They  already  spoke 
three  languages,  and  their  protruding  eyes  looked  almost 
diseased  with  intelligence. 

The  Wolfstein  house,  which  was  in  Curzon  Street, 
was  not  pretty.  Apparently  neither  Mrs  Wolfstein  nor 
her  husband,  who  was  a  financier  and  company  pro- 
moter on  a  very  large  scale,  had  good  taste  in  furniture 
and  decoration.  The  mansion  was  spacious  but  dingy. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  chocolate  and  fiery  yellow 
paint.    There  were  many  stuffy  brown  carpets,  and  tables 

50 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

which  were  unnecessarily  soHd.  In  the  hall  were  pillars 
which  looked  as  if  they  were  made  of  brawn,  and  arches 
with  lozenges  of  azure  paint  in  which  golden  stars  ap- 
peared rather  meretriciously.  A  plaster  statue  of  Hebe, 
with  crinkly  hair  and  staring  eyeballs,  stood  in  a  corner 
without  improving  matters.  That  part  of  the  staircase 
which  was  not  concealed  by  the  brown  carpet  was  dirty 
white.  An  immense  oil  painting  of  a  heap  of  dead 
pheasants,  rabbits  and  wild  duck,  lying  beside  a  gun  and 
a  pair  of  leather  gaiters,  immediately  faced  the  hall  door, 
which  was  opened  by  two  enormous  men  with  yellow 
complexions  and  dissipated  eyes.  Mrs  Wolfstein  was  at 
home,  and  one  of  the  enormous  men  lethargically  showed 
Lady  Holme  upstairs  into  a  drawing-room  which  sug- 
gested a  Gordon  Hotel.  She  waited  for  about  five  min- 
utes on  a  brown  and  yellow  sofa  near  a  table  on  which 
lay  some  books  and  several  paper-knives,  and  then  Mrs 
Wolfstein  appeared.  She  was  dressed  very  smartly  in 
blue  and  red,  and  looked  either  Oriental  or  Portuguese 
as  she  came  in.  Lady  Holme  was  not  quite  certain 
which. 

"Dear  person!"  she  said,  taking  Lady  Holme's  hands 
in  hers,  which  were  covered  with  unusually  large  rings. 
"Now  I've  got  a  confession  to  make.  What  a  delicious 
hat!" 

Lady  Holme  felt  certain  the  confession  was  of  some- 
thing unpleasant,  but  she  only  said,  in  the  rather  languid 
manner  she  generally  affected  towards  women, — 

"Well?    My  ear  is  at  the  grating." 

"My  lunch  is  at  the  Carlton." 

Lady  Holme  was  pleased.  At  the  Carlton  one  can 
always  look  about. 

"And — it's  a  woman's  lunch." 

Lady  Holme's  countenance  fell  quite  frankly. 

"I  knew  you'd  be  horrified.    You  think  us  such  bores, 

51 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE   FAN 

and  so  we  are.  But  I  couldn't  resist  being  malicious  to 
win  such  a  triumph.  You  at  a  hen  lunch!  It'll  be  the 
talk  of  London.    Can  you  forgive  me?" 

"Of  course." 

"And  can  you  stand  it?" 

Lady  Holme  looked  definitely  dubious. 

"I'll  tell  you  who'll  be  there — Lady  Cardington,  Lady 
Manby,  Mrs  Trent — do  you  know  her?  Spanish  look- 
ing, and's  divorced  two  husbands,  and's  called  the  scarlet 
woman  because  she  always  dresses  in  red — Sally  Per- 
ceval, Miss  Burns  and  Pimpernel  Schley." 

"Pimpernel  Schley!    Who  is  she?" 

"The  American  actress  who  plays  all  the  improper 
modern  parts.  Directly  a  piece  is  produced  in  Paris 
that  we  run  over  to  see — you  know  the  sort!  the  Grand 
Duke  and  foreign  Royalty  species — she  has  it  adapted 
for  her.  Of  course  it's  Bowdlerised  as  to  words,  but 
she  manages  to  get  back  all  that's  been  taken  out  in 
her  acting.  Young  America's  crazy  about  her.  She's 
going  to  play  over  here." 

"Oh!" 

Lady  Holme's  voice  was  not  encouraging,  but  Mrs 
Wolfstein  was  not  sensitive.  She  chattered  gaily  all 
the  way  to  the  Haymarket.  When  they  came  into  the 
Palm  Court  they  found  Lady  Cardington  already  there, 
seated  tragically  in  an  armchair,  and  looking  like  a 
weary  empress.  The  band  was  playing  on  the  balcony 
just  outside  the  glass  wall  which  divides  the  great  dining- 
room  from  the  court,  and  several  people  were  dotted 
about  waiting  for  friends,  or  simply  killing  time  by  in- 
dulging curiosity.  Among  them  was  a  large,  broad- 
shouldered  young  man,  with  a  round  face,  contemptuous 
blue  eyes  and  a  mouth  with  chubby,  pouting  lips.  He 
was  well  dressed,  but  there  was  a  touch  of  horseyness 
in  the  cut  of  his  trousers,  the  arrangement  of  his  tie. 

52 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

He  sat  close  to  the  band,  tipping  his  green  chair  back- 
wards and  smoking  a  cigarette. 

As  Mrs  Wolfstein  and  Lady  Holme  went  up  to 
greet  Lady  Cardington,  Sally  Perceval  and  Mrs  Trent 
came  in  together,  followed  almost  immediately  by  Lady 
Manby. 

Sally  Perceval  was  a  very  pretty  young  married 
woman,  who  spent  most  of  her  time  racing,  gambling 
and  going  to  house  parties.  She  looked  excessively 
fragile  and  consumptive,  but  had  lived  hard  and  never 
had  a  day's  illness  in  her  life.  She  was  accomplished, 
not  at  all  intellectual,  clever  at  games,  a  fine  horse- 
woman and  an  excellent  swimmer.  She  had  been  all 
over  the  world  with  her  husband,  who  was  very  hand- 
some and  almost  idiotic,  and  who  could  not  have  told 
you  what  the  Taj  was,  whether  Thebes  was  in  Egypt 
or  India,  or  what  was  the  difference,  if  any,  between  the 
Golden  Gate  and  the  Golden  Horn.  Mrs  Trent  was 
large,  sultry,  well-informed  and  supercilious;  had  the 
lustrous  eyes  of  a  Spaniard,  and  spoke  in  a  warm  con- 
tralto voice.  Her  figure  was  magnificent,  and  she  prided 
herself  on  having  a  masculine  intellect.  Her  enemies 
said  that  she  had  a  more  than  masculine  temper. 

Lady  Manby  had  been  presented  by  Providence  with 
a  face  like  a  teapot,  her  nose  being  the  spout  and  her 
cheeks  the  bulging  sides.  She  saw  everything  in  cari- 
cature. If  war  were  spoken  of,  her  imagination  imme- 
diately conjured  up  visions  of  unwashed  majors  con- 
spicuously absurd  in  toeless  boots,  of  fat  colonels  forced 
to  make  merry  on  dead  rats,  of  field-marshals  surprised 
by  the  enemy  in  their  night-shirts,  and  of  common  sol- 
diers driven  to  repair  their  own  clothes  and  preposter- 
ously at  work  on  women's  tasks.  She  adored  the  clergy 
for  their  pious  humours,  the  bench  for  its  delicious  at- 
tempts at  dignity,  the  bar  for  its  grotesque  travesties  of 

53 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

passionate  conviction — lies  with  their  wigs  on — the  world 
political  for  its  intrigues  dressed  up  in  patriotism.  A 
lord-chancellor  in  full  state  seemed  to  her  the  most  de- 
lightfully ridiculous  phenomenon  in  a  delightfully  ridicu- 
lous universe.  And  she  had  once  been  obliged  to  make 
a  convulsive  exit  from  an  English  cathedral,  in  which 
one  hundred  colonial  bishops  were  singing  a  solemn 
hymn,  entirely  devastated  by  the  laughter  waked  in  her 
by  this  most  sacred  spectacle. 

Miss  Burns,  who  hurried  in  breathlessly  ten  minutes 
late,  was  very  thin,  badly  dressed  and  insignificant-look- 
ing, wore  her  hair  short  and  could  not  see  you  if  you 
were  more  than  four  feet  away  from  her.  She  had  been 
on  various  lonely  and  distant  travelling  excursions,  about 
which  she  had  written  books,  had  consorted  merrily  with 
naked  savages,  sat  in  the  oily  huts  of  Esquimaux,  and 
penetrated  into  the  interior  of  China  dressed  as  a  man. 
Her  lack  of  affectation  hit  you  in  the  face  on  a  first 
meeting,  and  her  sincerity  was  perpetually  embroiling 
her  with  the  persistent  liars  who,  massed  together,  form 
what  is  called  decent  society. 

"I  know  I'm  late,"  she  said,  pushing  her  round  black 
hat  askew  on  her  shaggy  little  head.  "I  know  I've  kept 
you  all  waiting.     Pardon  !" 

"Indeed  you  haven't,"  replied  Mrs  Wolfstein.  "Pim- 
pernel Schley  isn't  here  yet.  She  lives  in  the  hotel,  so 
of  course  she'll  turn  up  last." 

Mrs  Trent  put  one  hand  on  her  hip  and  stared  inso- 
lently at  the  various  groups  of  people  in  the  court,  Lady 
Cardington  sighed,  and  Lady  Holme  assumed  a  vacant 
look,  which  suited  her  mental  attitude  at  the  moment. 
She  generally  began  to  feel  rather  vacant  if  she  were  long 
alone  with  women. 

Another  ten  minutes  passed. 

"I'm  famishing,"  said  Sally  Perceval.     "I've  been  at 

54 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

the  Bath  Club  diving,  and  I  do  so  want  my  grub.  Let's 
skip  in." 

"It  really  is  too  bad — oh,  here  she  comes!"  said  Mrs 
Wolfstein. 

Many  heads  in  the  Palm  Court  were  turned  towards 
the  stairs,  down  which  a  demure  figure  was  walking 
with  extreme  slowness.  The  big  young  man  with  the 
round  face  got  up  from  his  chair  and  looked  greedy,  and 
the  waiters  standing  by  the  desk  just  inside  the  door 
glanced  round,  whispered,  and  smiled  quickly  before 
gliding  off  to  their  different  little  tables. 

Pimpernel  Schley  was  alone,  but  she  moved  as  if  she 
were  leading  a  quiet  procession  of  vestal  virgins.  She 
was  dressed  in  white,  with  a  black  velvet  band  round  her 
tiny  waist  and  a  large  black  hat.  Her  shining,  straw- 
coloured  hair  was  fluffed  out  with  a  sort  of  ostentatious 
innocence  on  either  side  of  a  broad  parting,  and  she  kept 
her  round  chin  tucked  well  in  as  she  made  what  was 
certainly  an  effective  entrance.  Her  arms  hung  down 
at  her  sides,  and  in  one  hand  she  carried  a  black  fan. 
She  wore  no  gloves,  and  many  diamond  rings  glittered 
on  her  small  fingers,  the  rosy  nails  of  which  were 
trimmed  into  points.  As  she  drew  near  to  Mrs  Wolf- 
stein's  party  she  walked  slower  and  slower,  as  if  she  felt 
that  she  was  arriving  at  a  destination  much  too  soon. 

Lady  Holme  watched  her  as  she  approached,  examined 
her  with  that  piercing  scrutiny  in  which  the  soul  of  one 
woman  is  thrust  out,  like  a  spear,  towards  the  soul  of 
another.  She  noticed  at  once  that  Miss  Schley  resembled 
her,  had  something  of  her  charm  of  fairness.  It  was  a 
fainter,  more  virginal  charm  than  hers.  The  colouring 
of  hair  and  eyes  was  lighter.  The  complexion  was  a 
more  dead,  less  warm,  white.  But  there  was  certainly 
a  resemblance.  Miss  Schley  was  almost  exactly  her 
height,  too,  and — 

55 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Lady  Holme  glanced  swiftly  round  the  Palm  Court. 
Of  all  the  women  gathered  there  Pimpernel  Schley  and 
herself  were  nearest  akin  in  appearance. 

As  she  recognised  this  fact  Lady  Holme  felt  hostile 
to  Miss  Schley. 

Not  until  the  latter  was  almost  touching  her  hostess 
did  she  lift  her  eyes  from  the  ground.  Then  she  stood 
still,  looked  up  calmly,  and  said,  in  a  drawling  and  in- 
fantine voice, — 

"I  had  to  see  my  trunks  unpacked,  but  I  was  bound 
to  be  on  time.  I  wouldn't  have  come  down  to-day  for 
any  soul  in  the  world  but  you.    I  would  not." 

It  was  a  pretty  speaking  voice,  clear  and  youthful, 
with  a  choir-boyish  sound  in  it,  and  remarkably  free 
from  nasal  twang,  but  it  was  not  a  lady's  voice.  It 
sounded  like  the  frontispiece  of  a  summer  number  be- 
come articulate. 

Mrs  Wolfstein  began  to  introduce  Miss  Schley  to  her 
guests,  none  of  whom,  it  seemed,  knew  her.  She  bowed 
to  each  of  them,  still  with  the  vestal  virgin  air,  and  said, 
"Glad  to  know  you!"  to  each  in  turn  without  looking 
at  anyone.  Then  Mrs  Wolfstein  led  the  way  into  the 
restaurant. 

Everyone  looked  at  the  party  of  women  as  they  came 
in  and  ranged  themselves  round  a  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  big  room.  Lady  Cardington  sat  on  one  side  of 
Mrs  Wolfstein  and  Lady  Holme  on  the  other  between 
her  and  Mrs  Trent.  Miss  Schley  was  exactly  opposite. 
She  kept  her  eyes  eternally  cast  down  like  a  nun  at 
Benediction.  All  the  quite  young  men  who  could  see 
her  were  looking  at  her  with  keen  interest,  and  two  or 
three  of  them — probably  up  from  Sandhurst — had  al- 
ready assumed  expressions  calculated  to  alarm  modesty. 
Others  looked  mournfully  fatuous,  as  if  suddenly  a  prey 
to  lasting  and  romantic  grief.    The  older  men  were  more 

56 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

impartial  in  their  observation  of  Mrs  Wolfstein's  guests. 
And  all  the  women,  without  exception,  fixed  their  eyes 
upon  Lady  Holme's  hat. 

Lady  Cardington,  who  seemed  oppressed  by  grief,  said 
to  Mrs  Wolfstein, — 

"Did  you  see  that  article  in  the  Daily  Mail  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"Which  one?" 

"On  the  suggestion  to  found  a  school  in  which  the 
only  thing  to  be  taught  would  be  happiness." 

"Who's  going  to  be  the  teacher  ?" 

"Some  man.     I  forget  the  name." 

"A  man!"  said  Mrs  Trent,  in  a  slow,  veiled  contralto 
voice.  "Why,  men  are  always  furious  if  they  think  we 
have  any  pleasure  which  they  can't  deprive  us  of  at  a 
minute's  notice.  A  man  is  the  last  two-legged  thing  to 
be  a  happiness  teacher." 

"Whom  would  you  have  then?"  said  Lady  Cardington. 

"Nobody,  or  a  child." 

"Of  which  sex?"  said  Mrs  Wolfstein. 

"The  sex  of  a  child,"  replied  Mrs  Trent. 

Mrs  Wolfstein  laughed  rather  loudly. 

"I  think  children  are  the  most  greedy,  unsatisfied 
individuals  in — "  she  began. 

"I  was  not  alluding  to  Curzon  Street  children,"  ob- 
served Mrs  Trent,  interrupting.  "When  I  speak  in  gen- 
eral terms  of  anything  I  always  except  London." 

"Why?"  said  Sally  Perceval. 

"Because  it's  no  more  natural,  no  more  central,  no 
more  in  line  with  the  truth  of  things  than  vou  are, 
Sally." 

"But,  my  dear,  you  surely  aren't  a  belated  follower 
of  Tolstoi!"  cried  Mrs  Wolfstein.  "You  don't  want  us 
all  to  live  like  day  labourers." 

"I  don't  want  anybody  to  do  anything,  but  if  happi- 

57 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

ness  is  to  be  taught  it  must  not  be  by  a  man  or  by  a 
Londoner," 

"I  had  no  idea  you  had  been  caught  by  the  cult  of 
simpHcity,"  said  Mrs  Wolfstein.  "But  you  are  so  clever. 
You  reveal  your  dislikes  but  conceal  your  preferences. 
Most  women  think  that  if  they  only  conceal  their  dislikes 
they  are  quite  perfectly  subtle." 

"Subtle  people  are  delicious,"  said  Lady  Manby,  put- 
ting her  mouth  on  one  side.  "They  remind  me  of  a 
kleptomaniac  I  once  knew  who  had  a  little  pocket  closed 
by  a  flap  let  into  the  front  of  her  gown.  When  she  dined 
out  she  filled  it  with  scraps.  Once  she  dined  with  us 
and  I  saw  her,  when  she  thought  no  one  was  watching, 
peppering  her  pocket  with  cayenne,  and  looking  so  de- 
lightfully sly  and  thieving.  Subtle  people  are  always 
peppering  their  little  pockets  and  thinking  nobody  sees 
them." 

"And  lots  of  people  don't,"  said  Mrs  Wolfstein. 

"The  vices  are  divinely  comic,"  continued  Lady 
Manby,  looking  every  moment  more  like  a  teapot.  "I 
think  it's  such  a  mercy.  Fancy  what  a  lot  of  fun  we 
should  lose  if  there  were  no  drunkards,  for  instance!" 

Lady  Cardington  looked  shocked. 

"The  virtues  are  often  more  comic  than  the  vices," 
said  Mrs  Trent  with  calm  authority.  "Dramatists  know 
that.  Think  of  the  dozens  of  good  farces  whose  foun- 
dation is  supreme  respectability  in  contact  with  the 
wicked  world." 

"I  didn't  know  anyone  called  respectability  a  virtue," 
cried  Sally  Perceval. 

"Oh,  all  the  English  do  in  their  hearts,"  said  Mrs 
Wolfstein.    "Pimpernel,  are  you  Yankees  as  bad?" 

Miss  Schley  was  eating  sole  a  la  Colbert  with  her  eyes 
on  her  plate.  She  ate  very  slowly  and  took  tiny  morsels. 
Now  she  looked  up. 

58 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"We're  pretty  respectable  over  in  America,  I  sup- 
pose," she  drawled.  "Why  not?  What  harm  does  it  do 
anyway?" 

"Well,  it  limits  the  inventive  faculties  for  one  thing. 
If  one  is  strictly  respectable  life  is  plain  sailing." 

"Oh,  life  is  never  that,"  said  Mrs  Trent,  "for  women." 

Lady  Cardington  seemed  touched  by  this  remark. 

"Never,  never,"  she  said  in  her  curious  voice — a  voice 
in  which  tears  seemed  for  ever  to  be  lingering.  "We 
women  are  always  near  the  rocks." 

"Or  on  them,"  said  Mrs  Trent,  thinking  doubtless 
of  the  two  husbands  she  had  divorced. 

"I  like  a  good  shipwreck,"  exclaimed  Miss  Burns  in 
a  loud  tenor  voice.  "I  was  in  two  before  I  was  thirty, 
one  ofif  Hayti  and  one  off  Java,  and  I  enjoyed  them  both 
thoroughly.  They  wake  folks  up  and  make  them  show 
their  mettle." 

"It's  always  dangerous  to  speak  figuratively  if  she's 
anywhere  about,"  murmured  Mrs  Wolfstein  to  Lady 
Holme.  "She'll  talk  about  lowering  boats  and  Hfe-pre- 
servers  now  till  the  end  of  lunch." 

Lady  Holme  started.  She  had  not  been  listening  to 
the  conversation,  but  had  been  looking  at  Miss  Schley. 
She  had  noticed  instantly  the  effect  created  in  the  room 
by  the  actress's  presence  in  it.  The  magic  of  a  name 
flits,  like  a  migratory  bird,  across  the  Atlantic.  Numbers 
of  the  youthful  loungers  of  London  had  been  waiting 
impatiently  during  the  last  weeks  for  the  arrival  of  this 
pale  and  demure  star.  Now  that  she  had  come  their 
interest  in  her  was  keen.  Her  peculiar  reputation  for 
ingeniously  tricking  Mrs  Bowdler,  secretary  to  Mrs 
Grundy,  rendered  her  very  piquant,  and  this  piquancy 
was  increased  by  her  ostentatiously  vestal  appearance. 

Lady  Holme  was  sometimes  clairvoyante.  At  this 
moment  every  nerve  in  her  body  seemed  telHng  her 

59 


THE  WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

that  the  silent  girl,  who  sat  there  nibbling  her  lunch 
composedly,  was  going  to  be  the  rage  in  London.  It 
did  not  matter  at  all  whether  she  had  talent  or  not. 
Lady  Holme  saw  that  directly,  as  she  glanced  from  one 
little  table  to  another  at  the  observant,  whispering  men. 

She  felt  angry  with  Miss  Schley  for  resembling  her 
in  colouring,  for  resembling  her  in  another  respect — 
capacity  for  remaining  calmly  silent  in  the  midst  of 
fashionable  chatterboxes. 

"Will  she?"  she  said  to  Mrs  Wolfstein. 

"Yes.  If  she'd  never  been  shipwrecked  she'd  have 
been  almost  entertaining,  but — there's  Sir  Donald  Ulford 
trying  to  attract  your  attention." 

"Where?" 

She  looked  and  saw  Sir  Donald  sitting  opposite  to  the 
large  young  man  with  the  contemptuous  blue  eyes  and 
the  chubby  mouth.  They  both  seemed  very  bored.  Sir 
Donald  bowed. 

"Who  is  that  with  him?"  asked  Lady  Holme. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs  Wolfstein.  "He  looks  like 
a  Cupid  who's  been  through  Sandow's  school.  He 
oughtn't  to  wear  anything  but  wings." 

"It's  Sir  Donald's  son,  Leo,"  said  Lady  Cardington. 

Pimpernel  Schley  lifted  her  eyes  for  an  instant  from 
her  plate,  glanced  at  Leo  Ulford  and  cast  them  down 
again. 

"Leo  Ulford's  a  blackguard,"  observed  Mrs  Trent. 
"And  when  a  fair  man's  a  blackguard  he's  much  more 
dangerous  than  a  dark  man." 

All  the  women  stared  at  Leo  Ulford  with  a  certain 
eagerness. 

"He's  good-looking,"  said  Sally  Perceval.  "But  I 
always  distrust  cherubic  people.  They're  bound  to  do 
you  if  they  get  the  chance.    Isn't  he  married?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs  Trent.    "He  married  a  deaf  heiress." 

60 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Intelligent  of  him!"  remarked  Mrs  Wolfstein.  "I 
always  wish  I'd  married  a  blind  millionaire  instead  of 
Henry.  Being"  a  Jew,  Henry  sees  not  only  all  there  is 
to  see,  but  all  there  isn't.  Sir  Donald  and  his  Cupid 
son  don't  seem  to  have  much  to  say  to  one  another." 

"Oh,  don't  you  know  that  family  affection's  the  dumb- 
est thing  on  earth?"  said  Mrs  Trent. 

"Too  deep  for  speech,"  said  Lady  Manby.  "I  love 
to  see  fathers  and  sons  together,  the  fathers  trying  to 
look  younger  than  they  are  and  the  sons  older.  It's  the 
most  comic  relationship  and  breeds  shyness  as  the  West 
African  climate  breeds  fever." 

*T  know  the  whole  of  the  West  African  coast  by 
heart,"  declared  Miss  Burns,  wagging  her  head,  and 
moving  her  brown  hands  nervously  among  her  knives 
and  forks.    "And  I  never  caught  anything  there." 

"Not  even  a  husband,"  murmured  Mrs  Wolfstein  to 
Lady  Manby. 

"In  fact,  I  never  felt  better  in  my  life  than  I  did  at 
Old  Calabar,"  continued  Miss  Burns.  "But  there  my 
mind  was  occupied.  I  was  studying  the  habits  of  alli- 
gators." 

"They're  very  bad,  aren't  they?"  asked  Lady  Manby, 
in  a  tone  of  earnest  inquiry. 

"I  prefer  to  study  the  habits  of  men,"  said  Sally  Per- 
ceval, who  was  always  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  young 
racing  men  and  athletes,  who  admired  her  swimming 
feats. 

"Men  are  very  disappointing,  I  think,"  observed  Mrs 
Trent.  "They  are  like  a  lot  of  beads  all  threaded  on  one 
string," 

"And  what's  the  string?"  asked  Sally  Perceval. 

"Vanity.  Men  are  far  vainer  than  we  are.  Their  in- 
difference to  the  little  arts  we  practise  shows  it.  A 
woman  whose  head  is  bald  covers  it  with  a  wig.    With- 

6i 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

out  a  wig  she  would  feel  that  she  was  an  outcast  totally 
powerless  to  attract.  But  a  bald-headed  man  has  no 
idea  of  diffidence.  He  does  not  bother  about  a  wig 
because  he  expects  to  be  adored  without  one," 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  he  is  adored,"  said  Mrs 
Wolfstein.    "Look  at  my  passion  for  Henry." 

They  began  to  talk  about  their  husbands.  Lady 
Holme  did  not  join  in.  She  and  Pimpernel  Schley  were 
very  silent  members  of  the  party.  Even  Miss  Burns, 
who  was — so  she  said — a  spinster  by  conviction,  not  by 
necessity,  plunged  into  the  husband  question,  and  gave 
some  very  daring  illustrations  of  the  marriage  customs  of 
certain  heathen  tribes. 

Pimpernel  Schley  hardly  spoke  at  all.  When  some- 
one, turning  to  her,  asked  her  what  she  thought  about 
the  subject  under  discussion,  she  lifted  her  pale  eyes 
and  said,  with  the  choir-boy  drawl, — 

'Tve  got  no  husband  and  never  had  one,  so  I  guess 
I'm  no  kind  of  a  judge." 

"I  guess  she's  a  judge  of  other  women's  husbands 
though,"  said  Mrs  Wolfstein  to  Lady  Cardington.  "That 
child  is  going  to  devastate  London." 

Now  and  then  Lady  Holme  glanced  towards  Sir 
Donald  and  his  son.  They  seemed  as  untalkative  as 
she  was.  Sir  Donald  kept  on  looking  towards  Mrs 
Wolfstein's  table.  So  did  Leo.  But  whereas  Leo 
Ulford's  eyes  were  fixed  on  Pimpernel  Schley,  Sir 
Donald's  met  the  eyes  of  Lady  Holme.  She  felt  an- 
noyed; not  because  Sir  Donald  was  looking  at  her,  but 
because  his  son  was  not. 

How  these  women  talked  about  their  husbands!  Lady 
Cardington,  who  was  a  widow,  spoke  of  husbands  as 
if  they  were  a  race  which  was  gradually  dying  out.  She 
thought  the  modern  woman  was  beginning  to  get  a  little 
tired  of  the  institution  of  matrimony,  and  to  care  much 

62 


THE  WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

less  for  men  than  was  formerly  the  case.  Being  con- 
tradicted by  Mrs  Trent,  she  gave  her  reasons  for  this 
behef.  One  was  that  whereas  American  matinee  girls 
used  to  go  mad  over  the  "leading  men"  of  the  stage  they 
now  went  mad  over  the  leading  women.  She  also  in- 
stanced the  many  beautiful  London  women,  universally 
admired,  who  were  over  thirty  and  still  remained  spin- 
sters. Mrs  Trent  declared  that  they  were  abnormal  and 
that,  till  the  end  of  time,  women  would  always  wish  to 
be  wives.  Mrs  Wolfstein  agreed  with  her  on  various 
grounds.  One  was  that  it  was  the  instinct  of  woman  to 
buy  and  to  rule,  and  that  if  she  were  rich  she  could  now 
acquire  a  husband  as,  in  former  days,  people  acquired 
slaves — by  purchase.  This  remark  led  to  the  old  question 
of  American  heiresses  and  the  English  nobility,  and  to  a 
prolonged  discussion  as  to  whether,  or  not,  most  women 
ruled  their  husbands. 

Women  nearly  always  argue  from  personal  experience, 
and  consequently  Lady  Cardington — whose  husband  had 
treated  her  badly — differed  on  this  point  from  Mrs  Wolf- 
stein, who  always  did  precisely  what  she  pleased  regard- 
less of  Mr  Wolfstein's  wishes.  Mrs  Trent  affirmed  that 
for  her  part  she  thought  women  should  treat  their  hus- 
bands as  they  treated  their  servants,  and  dismiss  them 
if  they  didn't  behave  themselves,  without  giving  them 
a  character.  She  had  done  so  twice,  and  would  do  it  a 
third  time  if  the  occasion  arose.  Sally  Perceval  attacked 
her  for  this,  pleading  slangily  that  men  would  be  men, 
and  that  their  failings  ought  to  be  winked  at;  and  Miss 
Burns,  as  usual,  brought  the  marital  proceedings  of 
African  savages  upon  the  carpet.  Lady  Manby  turned 
the  whole  thing  into  a  joke  by  a  farcical  description  of 
the  Private  Enquiry  proceedings  of  a  jealous  woman  of 
her  acquaintance,  who  had  donned  a  canary-coloured  wig 
as  a  disguise,  and  dogged  her  husband's  footsteps  in 

63 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

the  streets  of  London,  only  to  find  that  he  went  out  at 
odd  times  to  visit  a  grandmother  from  whom  he  had 
expectations,  and  who  happened  to  hve  in  St  John's 
Wood. 

The  foreign  waiters,  who  moved  round  the  table  hand- 
ing the  dishes,  occasionally  exchanged  furtive  glances 
which  seemed  indicative  of  suppressed  amusement,  and 
the  men  who  were  lunching  near,  many  of  whom  were 
now  smoking  cigarettes,  became  more  and  more  intent 
upon  Mrs  Wolfstein  and  her  guests.  As  they  were  get- 
ting up  to  go  into  the  Palm  Court  for  cofifee  and  liqueurs, 
Lady  Cardington  again  referred  to  the  article  on  the 
proposed  school  for  happiness,  which  had  apparently 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  her. 

"I  wonder  if  happiness  can  be  taught,"  she  said.  "If 
it  can—" 

"It  can't,"  said  Mrs  Trent,  with  more  than  her  usual 
sledge-hammer  bluntness.  "We  aren't  meant  to  be  happy 
here." 

"Who  doesn't  mean  us  to  be  happy  ?"  asked  poor  Lady 
Cardington  in  a  deplorable  voice. 

"First — our  husbands." 

"It's  cowardly  not  to  be  happy,"  cried  Miss  Burns, 
pushing  her  hat  over  her  left  eye  as  a  tribute  to  the  close 
of  lunch.    "In  a  savage  state  you'll  always  find — " 

The  remainder  of  her  remark  was  lost  in  the  frou- 
frou of  skirts  as  the  eight  women  began  slowly  to  thread 
their  way  between  the  tables  to  the  door. 

Lady  Holme  found  herself  immediately  behind  Miss 
Schley,  who  moved  with  impressive  deliberation  and  the 
extreme  composure  of  a  well-brought-up  child  thor- 
oughly accustomed  to  being  shown  off  to  visitors.  Her 
straw-coloured  hair  was  done  low  in  the  nape  of  her 
snowy  neck,  and,  as  she  took  her  little  steps,  her  white 
skirt  trailed  over  the  carpet  behind  her  with  a  sort  of 

64 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

virginal  slyness.  As  she  passed  Leo  Ulford  it  brushed 
gently  against  him,  and  he  drummed  the  large  fingers 
of  his  left  hand  with  sudden  violence  on  the  tablecloth, 
at  the  same  time  pursing  his  chubby  lips  and  then 
opening  his  mouth  as  if  he  were  going  to  say  some- 
thing. 

Sir  Donald  rose  and  bowed.  Mrs  Wolfstein  murmured 
a  word  to  him  in  passing,  and  they  had  not  been  sipping 
their  cofifee  for  more  than  two  or  three  minutes  before 
he  joined  them  with  his  son. 

Sir  Donald  came  up  at  once  to  Lady  Holme. 

"May  I  present  my  son  to  you,  Lady  Holme?"  he 
said. 

"Certainly." 

"Leo,  I  wish  to  introduce  you  to  Lady  Holme." 

Leo  Ulford  bowed  rather  ungracefully.  Standing  up 
he  looked  more  than  ever  like  a  huge  boy,  and  he  had 
much  of  the  expression  that  is  often  characteristic  of 
huge  boys — an  expression  in  which  impudence  seems  to 
float  forward  from  a  background  of  surHness. 

Lady  Holme  said  nothing.  Leo  Ulford  sat  down  be- 
side her  in  an  armchair. 

"Better  weather,"  he  remarked. 

Then  he  called  a  waiter,  and  said  to  him,  in  a  hectoring 
voice, — 

"Bring  me  a  Kummel  and  make  haste  about  it." 

He  lit  a  cigarette  that  was  almost  as  big  as  a  cigar, 
and  turned  again  to  Lady  Holme. 

"I've  been  in  the  Sahara  gazelle  shooting,"  he  con- 
tinued. 

He  spoke  in  a  rather  thick,  lumbering  voice  and  very 
loud,  probably  because  he  was  married  to  a  deaf  woman. 

"Just  come  back,"  he  added. 

"Oh!"  said  Lady  Holme. 

She  was  sitting  perfectly  upright  on  her  chair,  and 

65 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

noticed  that  her  companion's  eyes  travelled  calmly  and 
critically  over  her  figure  with  an  unveiled  deliberation 
that  was  exceptionally  brazen  even  in  a  modern  London 
man.  Lady  Holme  did  not  mind  it.  Indeed,  she  rather 
liked  it.  She  knew  at  once,  by  that  look,  the  type  of 
man  with  whom  she  had  to  deal.  In  Leo  Ulford  there 
was  something  of  Lord  Holme,  as  in  Pimpernel  Schley 
there  was  perhaps  a  touch  of  herself.  Having  finished  his 
stare,  Leo  Ulford  continued, — 

"Jolly  out  there.  No  rot.  Do  as  you  like  and  no  one 
to  bother  you.    Gazelle  are  awfully  shy  beasts,  though." 

"They  must  have  suited  you,"  said  Lady  Holme,  very 
gravely. 

"Why?"  he  asked,  taking  the  glass  of  Kummel  which 
the  waiter  had  brought  and  setting  it  down  on  a  table 
by  him. 

"Aren't  you  a  shy — er — beast?" 

He  stared  at  her  calmly  for  a  moment,  and  then  said, — 

"I  say,  you're  too  sharp,  Lady  Holme." 

He  turned  his  head  towards  Pimpernel  Schley,  who 
was  sitting  a  little  way  off  with  her  soft,  white  chin 
tucked  well  in,  looking  steadily  down  into  a  cup  half  full 
of  Turkish  coffee  and  speaking  to  nobody. 

"Who's  that  girl  ?"  he  asked. 

"That's  Miss  Pimpernel  Schley.  A  pretty  name,  isn't 
it?" 

"Is  it?    An  American  of  course." 

"Of  course." 

"What  cheek  they  have?    What's  she  do?" 

"I  believe  she  acts  in — well,  a  certain  sort  of  plays." 

A  slow  smile  overspread  Leo  Ulford's  face  and  made 
him  look  more  like  a  huge  boy  than  ever. 

"What  certain  s®rt?"  he  asked.     "The  sort  I'd  like?" 

"Very  probably.  But  I  know  nothing  of  your 
tastes." 

66 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

She  did — everything  almost.  There  are  a  good  many 
Leo  Ulfords  lounging  about  London. 

"I  like  anything  that's  a  bit  lively,  with  no  puritanic 
humbug  about  it." 

"Well,  you  surely  can't  suppose  that  there  can  be  any 
puritanic  humbug  about  Miss  Schley  or  anything  she  has 
to  do  with!" 

He  glanced  again  at  Pimpernel  Schley  and  then  at 
Lady  Holme.  The  smile  on  his  face  became  a  grin. 
Then  his  huge  shoulders  began  to  shake  gently. 

*T  do  love  talking  to  women,"  he  said,  on  the  tide  of 
a  prolonged  chuckle.    "When  they  aren't  deaf." 

Lady  Holme  still  remained  perfectly  grave. 

"Do  you?    Why?"  she  inquired. 

"Can't  you  guess  why?" 

"Our  charity  to  our  sister  women?" 

She  was  smiling  now. 

"You  teach  me  such  a  lot,"  he  said. 

He  drank  his  Kummel. 

"I  always  learn  something  when  I  talk  to  a  woman. 
I've  learnt  something  from  you." 

Lady  Holme  did  not  ask  him  what  it  was.  She  saw 
that  he  was  now  more  intent  on  her  than  he  had  been 
on  Miss  Schley,  and  she  got  up  to  go,  feeling  more 
cheerful  than  she  had  since  she  left  the  atelier  of  "Cu- 
pido." 

"Don't  go." 

"I  must." 

"Already!    May  I  come  and  call?" 

"Your  father  knows  my  address." 

"Oh,  I  say— but— " 

"You're  not  going  already!"  cried  Mrs  Wolfstein,  who 
was  having  a  second  glass  of  Benedictine  and  beginning 
to  talk  rather  outrageously  and  with  a  more  than  usually 
pronounced  foreign  accent. 

67 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

**I  must,  really." 

"I'm  afraid  my  son  has  bored  you,"  murmured  Sir 
Donald,  in  his  worn-out  voice. 

"No,  I  like  him,"  she  replied,  loud  enough  for  Leo  to 
hear. 

Sir  Donald  did  not  look  particularly  gratified  at  this 
praise  of  his  achievement.  Lady  Holme  took  an  airy 
leave  of  everybody.  When  she  came  to  Pimpernel  Schley 
she  said, — 

"I  wish  you  a  great  success,  Miss  Schley." 

"Many  thanks,"  drawled  the  vestal  virgin,  who  was 
still  looking  into  her  coffee  cup. 

"I  must  come  to  your  first  night.  Have  you  ever 
acted  in  London?" 

"Never." 

"You  won't  be  nervous?" 

"Nervous!    Don't  know  the  word." 

She  bent  to  sip  her  coflfee. 

When  Lady  Holme  reached  the  door  of  the  Carlton, 
and  was  just  entering  one  of  the  revolving  cells  to  gain 
the  pavement,  she  heard  Lady  Cardington's  low  voice 
behind  her. 

"Let  me  drive  you  home,  dear." 

At  the  moment  she  felt  inclined  to  be  alone.  She  had 
even  just  refused  Sir  Donald's  earnest  request  to  accom- 
pany her  to  her  carriage.  Had  any  other  woman  made 
her  this  offer  she  would  certainly  have  refused  it.  But 
few  people  refused  any  request  of  Lady  Cardington's. 
Lady  Holme,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  felt  the  powerful 
influence  that  lay  in  her  gentleness  as  a  nerve  lies  in  a 
body.  And  then  had  she  not  wept  when  Lady  Holme 
sang  a  tender  song  to  her?  In  a  moment  they  were 
driving  up  the  Haymarket  together  in  Lady  Cardington's 
barouche. 

The  weather  had  grown  brighter.    Wavering  gleams 

68 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

of  light  broke  through  the  clouds  and  lay  across  the 
city,  giving  a  peculiarly  unctuous  look  to  the  slimy 
streets,  in  which  there  were  a  good  many  pedestrians 
more  or  less  splashed  with  mud.  There  was  a  certain 
hopefulness  in  the  atmosphere,  and  yet  a  pathos  such 
as  there  always  is  in  Spring  when  it  walks  through 
London  ways,  bearing  itself  half  nervously,  like  a  country 
cousin. 

"I  don't  like  this  time  of  year,"  said  Lady  Cardington. 

She  was  leaning  back  and  glancing  anxiously  about 
her. 

"But  why  not?"  asked  Lady  Holme.  "What's  the 
matter  with  it?" 

"Youth." 

"But  surely—" 

"The  year's  too  young.  And  at  my  age  one  feels 
very  often  as  if  the  advantage  of  youth  were  an  unfair 
advantage." 

"Dare  I  ask—?" 

She  checked  herself,  looking  at  her  companion's  snow- 
white  hair,  which  was  arranged  in  such  a  way  that  it 
looked  immensely  thick  under  the  big  black  hat  she 
wore — a  hat  half  grandmotherly  and  half  coquettish,  that 
certainly  suited  her  to  perfection. 

"Spring, — "  she  was  beginning  rather  quickly,  but 
Lady  Cardington  interrupted  her. 

"Fifty-eight,"  she  said. 

She  laughed  anxiously  and  looked  at  Lady  Holme. 

"Didn't  you  think  I  was  older?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  thought  about  it,"  replied 
Lady  Holme,  with  the  rather  careless  frankness  she  often 
used  towards  women. 

"Of  course  not.  Why  should  you,  or  anyone?  When 
a  woman's  once  over  fifty  it  really  doesn't  matter  much 
whether  she's  fifty-one  or  seventy-one.    Does  it?" 

Lady  Holme  thought  for  a  moment.     Then  she  said, — 

69 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

"I  really  don't  know.    You  see,  I'm  not  a  man." 

Lady  Cardington's  forehead  puckered  and  her  mouth 
drooped  piteously. 

"A  woman's  real  life  is  very  short,"  she  said.  "But 
her  desire  for  real  life  can  last  very  long — her  silly,  use- 
less desire." 

"But  if  her  looks  remain?" 

"They  don't." 

"You  think  it  is  a  question  of  looks  ?" 

"Do  you  think  it  is?"  asked  Lady  Cardington.  "But 
how  can  you  know  anything  about  it,  at  your  age,  and 
with  your  appearance?" 

"I  suppose  we  all  have  our  different  opinions  as  to 
what  men  are  and  what  men  want,"  Lady  Holme  said, 
more  thoughtfully  than  usual. 

"Men!  Men!"  Lady  Cardington  exclaimed,  with  a 
touch  of  irritation  unusual  in  her.  "Why  should  we 
women  do,  and  be,  everything  for  men?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  we  do  and  we  are.  There  are  some 
men,  though,  who  think  it  isn't  a  question  of  looks,  or 
think  they  think  so." 

"Who?"  said  Lady  Cardington,  quickly. 

"Oh,  there  are  some,"  answered  Lady  Holme,  eva- 
sively, "who  believe  in  mental  charm  more  than  in 
physical  charm,  or  say  they  do.  And  mental  charm 
doesn't  age  so  obviously  as  physical — as  the  body  does, 
I  suppose.  Perhaps  we  ought  to  pin  our  faith  to  it. 
What  do  you  think  of  Miss  Schley  ?" 

Lady  Cardington  glanced  at  her  with  a  kind  of  de- 
pressed curiosity. 

"She  pins  her  faith  to  the  other  thing,"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"She's  pretty.  Do  you  know  she  reminds  me  faintly 
of  you." 

Lady  Holme  felt  acute  irritation  at  this  remark,  but 
she  only  said, — 

70 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

"Does  she?" 

"Something  in  her  colouring.  I'm  sure  she's  a  man's 
woman,  but  I  can't  say  I  found  her  interesting." 

"Men's  women  seldom  are  interesting  to  us.  They 
don't  care  to  be,"  said  Lady  Holme. 

Suddenly  she  thought  that  possibly  between  Pimpernel 
Schley  and  herself  there  were  resemblances  unconnected 
with  colouring. 

"I  suppose  not.  But  still — ah,  here's  Cadogan  Square!" 

She  kissed  Lady  Holme  lightly  on  the  cheek. 

"Fifty-eight!"  Lady  Holme  said  to  herself  as  she  went 
into  the  house.  "Just  think  of  being  fifty-eight  if  one 
has  been  a  man's  woman!  Perhaps  it's  better  after  all  to 
be  an  everybody's  woman.    Well,  but  how's  it  done?" 

She  looked  quite  puzzled  as  she  came  into  the  drawing- 
room,  where  Robin  Pierce  had  been  waiting  impatiently 
for  twenty  minutes. 

"Robin,"  she  said  seriously,  "I'm  very  unhappy." 

"Not  so  unhappy  as  I  have  been  for  the  last  half 
hour,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  and  holding  it.  "What 
is  it?" 

"I'm  dreadfully  afraid  I'm  a  man's  woman.  Do  you 
think  I  am?" 

He  could  not  help  smiling  as  he  looked  into  her  solemn 
eyes. 

"I  do  indeed.    Why  should  you  be  upset  about  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  Lady  Cardington's  been  saying  things 
— and  I  met  a  rather  abominable  little  person  at  lunch, 
a  little  person  like  a  baby  that's  been  about  a  great  deal 
in  a  former  state,  and  altogether —    Let's  have  tea." 

"By  all  means." 

"And  now  soothe  me,  Robin.  I'm  dreadfully  strung 
up.  Soothe  me.  Tell  me  I'm  an  everybody's  woman 
and  that  I  shall  never  be  de  trop  in  the  world — not  even 
when  I'm  fifty-eight." 

71 


VI 

THE  success  of  Pimpernel  Schley  in  London  was 
great  and  immediate,  and  preceded  her  appear- 
ance upon  the  stage.  To  some  people,  who 
thought  they  knew  their  London,  it  was  inexplicable. 
Miss  Schley  was  pretty  and  knew  how  to  dress.  These 
facts,  though  of  course  denied  by  some,  as  all  facts  in 
London  are,  were  undeniable.  But  Miss  Schley  had 
nothing  to  say.  She  was  not  a  brilliant  talker,  as  so 
many  of  her  countrywomen  are.  She  was  not  vivacious 
in  manner,  except  on  rare  occasions.  She  was  not  inter- 
ested in  all  the  questions  of  the  day.  She  was  not — a 
great  many  things.    But  she  was  one  thing. 

She  was  exquisitely  sly. 

Her  slyness  was  definite  and  pervasive.  In  her  it  took 
the  place  of  wit.  It  took  the  place  of  culture.  It  even 
took  the  place  of  vivacity.  It  was  a  sort  of  maid-of-all- 
work  in  her  personality  and  never  seemed  to  tire.  The 
odd  thing  was  that  it  did  not  seem  to  tire  others.  They 
found  it  permanently  piquant.  Men  said  of  Miss  Schley, 
"She's  a  devilish  clever  little  thing.  She  don't  say  much, 
but  she's  up  to  every  move  on  the  board."  Women  were 
impressed  by  her.  There  was  something  in  her  supreme 
and  snowy  composure  that  suggested  inflexible  will. 
Nothing  ever  put  her  out  or  made  her  look  as  if  she  were 
in  a  false  position. 

London  was  captivated  by  the  abnormal  combination 
of  snow  and  slyness  which  she  presented  to  it,  and  began 
at  once  to  make  much  of  her. 

72 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

At  one  time  the  English  were  supposed  to  be  cold 
and  rather  gloried  in  the  supposition.  But  recently  a 
change  has  taken  place  in  the  national  character — at 
anyrate  as  exhibited  in  London.  Rigidity  has  gone  out 
of  fashion.  It  is  condemned  as  insular,  and  unless  you 
are  cosmopolitan  nowadays  you  are  nothing,  or  worse 
than  nothing.  The  smart  Englishwoman  is  beginning 
to  be  almost  as  restless  as  a  Neapolitan.  She  is  in  a 
continual  flutter  of  movement,  as  if  her  body  were 
threaded  with  trembling  wires.  She  uses  a  great  deal 
of  gesture.  She  is  noisy  about  nothing.  She  is  vivacious 
at  all  costs,  and  would  rather  suggest  hysteria  than 
British  phlegm. 

Miss  Schley's  calm  was  therefore  in  no  danger  of 
being  drowned  in  any  pervasive  calm  about  her.  On 
the  contrary,  it  stood  out.  It  became  very  individual. 
Her  composed  speechlessness  in  the  midst  of  uneasy 
chatter — the  Englishwoman  is  seldom  really  self-pos- 
sessed— carried  with  it  a  certain  dignity  which  took  the 
place  of  breeding.  She  was  always  at  her  ease,  and  to  be 
always  at  your  ease  makes  a  deep  impression  upon 
London,  which  is  full  of  self-consciousness. 

She  began  to  be  the  fashion  at  once.  A  great  lady, 
who  had  a  passion  for  supplying  smart  men  with  what 
they  wanted,  saw  that  they  were  going  to  want  Miss 
Schley  and  promptly  took  her  up.  Other  women  fol- 
lowed suit.  Miss  Schley  had  a  double  triumph.  She 
was  run  after  by  women  as  well  as  by  men.  She  got  her 
little  foot  in  everywhere  and  in  no  time.  Her  personal 
character  was  not  notoriously  bad.  The  slyness  had 
taken  care  of  that.  But  even  if  it  had  been,  if  only  the 
papers  had  not  been  too  busy  in  the  matter,  she  might 
have  had  success.  Some  people  do  whose  names  have 
figured  upon  the  evening  bills  exposed  at  the  street  cor- 
ners.   Hers  had  not  and  was  not  likely  to.    It  was  her 

73 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

art  to  look  deliberately  pure  and  good,  and  to  suggest, 
in  a  way  almost  indefinable  and  very  perpetual,  that  she 
could  be  anything  and  everything,  and  perhaps  had  been, 
under  the  perfumed  shadow  of  the  rose.  The  fact  that 
the  suggestion  seemed  to  be  conveyed  with  intention  was 
the  thing  that  took  corrupt  old  London's  fancy  and 
made  Miss  Schley  a  pet. 

Her  name  of  Pimpernel  was  not  against  her. 
Men  liked  it  for  its  innocence,  and  laughed  as  they 
mentioned  it  in  clubs,  as  who  should  say, — 
"We  know  the  sort  of  Pimpernel  we  mean." 
Miss  Schley's  social  success  brought  her  into  Lady 
Holme's  set,  and  people  noticed,  what  Lady  Holme  had 
been  the  first  to  notice,  the  faint  likeness  between  them. 
Lady  Holme  was  not  exquisitely  sly.  Her  voice  was 
not  like  a  choir-boy's;  her  manner  was  not  like  the 
manner  of  an  image;  her  eyes  were  not  for  ever  cast 
down.  Even  her  characteristic  silence  was  far  less  per- 
petual than  the  equally  characteristic  silence  of  Miss 
Schley.  But  men  said  they  were  the  same  colour.  What 
men  said  women  began  to  think,  and  it  was  not  an  asser- 
tion wholly  without  foundation.  At  a  little  distance  there 
was  an  odd  resemblance  in  the  one  white  face  and  fair 
hair  to  the  other.  Miss  Schley's  way  of  moving,  too,  had 
a  sort  of  reference  to  Lady  Holme's  individual  walk. 
There  were  several  things  characteristic  of  Lady  Holme 
which  Miss  Schley  seemed  to  reproduce,  as  it  were,  with 
a  sly  exaggeration.  Her  hair  was  similar,  but  paler,  her 
whiteness  more  dead,  her  silence  more  perpetual,  her 
composure  more  enigmatically  serene,  her  gait  slower, 
with  diminished  steps. 

It  was  all  a  little  like  an  imitation,  with  just  a  touch  of 
caricature  added. 

One  or  two  friends  remarked  upon  it  to  Lady  Holme, 
who  heard  them  very  airily, 

74 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Are  we  alike?"  she  said.  "I  daresay,  but  you  mustn't 
expect  me  to  see  it.  One  never  knows  the  sort  of  im- 
pression one  produces  on  the  world.  I  think  Miss  Schley 
a  very  attractive  little  creature,  and  as  to  her  social  gifts, 
I  bow  to  them." 

"But  she  has  none,"  cried  Mrs  Wolfstein,  who  was 
one  of  those  who  had  drawn  Lady  Holme's  attention  to 
the  likeness. 

"How  can  you  say  so?    Everyone  is  at  her  feet." 

"Her  feet,  perhaps.  They  are  lovely.  But  she  has  no 
gifts.  That's  why  she  gets  on.  Gifted  people  are  a  drug 
in  the  market.  London's  sick  of  them.  They  worry. 
Pimpernel's  found  that  out  and  gone  in  for  the  savage 
state.     I  mean  mentally,  of  course." 

"Her  mind  dwells  in  a  wigwam,"  said  Lady  Manby. 
"And  wears  glass  beads  and  little  bits  of  coloured  cloth." 

"But  her  acting?"  asked  Lady  Holme,  with  careless 
indifiference. 

"Oh,  that's  improper  but  not  brilliant,"  said  Mrs  Wolf- 
stein.   "The  American  critics  say  it's  beneath  contempt." 

"But  not  beneath  popularity,  I  suppose?"  said  Lady 
Holme. 

"No.  She's  enormously  popular.  Newspaper  notices 
don't  matter  to  Pimpernel.  Are  you  going  to  ask  her  to 
your  house?  You  might.  She's  longing  to  come. 
Everybody  else  has,  and  she  knew  you  first." 

Lady  Holme  began  to  realise  why  she  could  never 
like  Mrs  Wolfstein.  The  latter  would  try  to  manage  other 
people's  affairs. 

"I  had  no  idea  she  would  care  about  it,"  she  answered, 
rather  coldly. 

"My  dear — an  American!  And  your  house!  You're 
absurdly  modest.  She's  simply  pining  to  come.  May  I 
tell  her  to?" 

"I   should   prefer   to   invite   her   myself,"    said   Lady 

75 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Holme,  with  a  distinct  touch  of  hauteur  which  made  Mrs 
Wolfstein  smile  maliciously. 

When  Lady  Holme  was  alone  she  realised  that  she 
had,  half  unconsciously,  meant  that  Miss  Schley  should 
find  that  there  was  at  anyrate  one  house  in  London  whose 
door  did  not  at  once  fly  open  to  welcome  her  demure 
presence.  But  now?  She  certainly  did  not  intend  to  be  a 
marked  exception  to  a  rule  that  was  apparently  very 
general.  If  people  were  going  to  talk  about  her  exclu- 
sion of  Miss  Schley,  she  would  certainly  not  exclude  her. 
She  asked  herself  why  she  wished  to,  and  said  to  herself 
that  Miss  Schley's  slyness  bored  her.  But  she  knew 
that  the  real  reason  of  the  secret  hostility  she  felt  towards 
the  American  was  the  fact  of  their  resemblance  to  each 
other.  Until  Miss  Schley  appeared  in  London  she — 
Viola  Holme — had  been  original  both  in  her  beauty  and 
in  her  manner  of  presenting  it  to  the  world.  Miss  Schley 
was  turning  her  into  a  type. 

It  was  too  bad.    Any  woman  would  have  disliked  it. 

She  wondered  whether  Miss  Schley  recognised  the 
likeness.  But  of  course  people  had  spoken  to  her  about 
it.  Mrs  Wolfstein  was  her  bosom  friend.  The  Jewess 
had  met  her  first  at  Carlsbad  and,  with  that  terrible  social 
■flair  which  often  dwells  in  Israel,  had  at  once  reaUsed 
her  fitness  for  a  London  success  and  resolved  to  "get 
her  over."  Women  of  the  Wolfstein  species  are  seldom 
jealously  timorous  of  the  triumphs  of  other  women.  A 
certain  coarse  cleverness,  a  certain  ingrained  assurance 
and  unconquerable  self-confidence,  keeps  them  hardy. 
And  they  generally  have  a  noble  reliance  on  the  power  of 
the  tongue.  Being  incapable  of  any  fear  of  Miss  Schley, 
Mrs  Wolfstein,  ever  on  the  look-out  for  means  of  im- 
proving her  already  satisfactory  position  in  the  London 
world,  saw  one  in  the  vestal  virgin  and  resolved  to 
launch  her  in  England.    She  was  delighted  with  the  re- 

76 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

suit.  Miss  Schley  had  already  added  several  very  de- 
sirable people  to  the  Wolfstein  visiting-list.  In  return 
"Henry"  had  "put  her  on  to"  one  or  two  very  good 
things  in  the  city.  Everything  would  be  most  satisfactory 
if  only  Lady  Holme  were  not  tiresome  about  the  Cado- 
gan  Square  door. 

"She  hates  you,  Pimpernel,"  said  Mrs  Wolfstein  to 
her  friend. 

"Why?"  drawled  Miss  Schley. 

"You  know  why  perfectly  well.  You  reproduce  her 
looks.  I'm  perfectly  certain  she's  dreading  your  first 
night.  She's  afraid  people  will  begin  to  think  that  ex- 
traordinary colourless  charm  she  and  you  possess  stagey. 
Besides,  you  have  certain  mannerisms — you  don't  imitate 
her,  Pimpernel." 

The  pawnbroking  expression  was  remarkably  apparent 
for  a  moment  in  Mrs  Wolfstein's  eyes. 

"I  haven't  started  to  yet." 

"Yet?" 

"Well,  if  she  don't  ask  me  to  number  thirty-eight — • 
'tis  thirty-eight  ?" 

"Forty-two." 

"Forty-two  Cadogan  Square,  I  might  be  tempted.  I 
came  out  as  a  mimic,  you  know,  at  Corsher  and  Byall's 
in  Philadelphia." 

Miss  Schley  gazed  reflectively  upon  the  brown  carpet 
of  Mrs  Wolfstein's  boudoir. 

"Folks  said  I  wasn't  bad,"  she  added  meditatively. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  warn  Viola,"  said  Mrs  Wolf- 
stein. 

She  was  peculiarly  intimate  with  people  of  distinction 
when  they  weren't  there.  Miss  Schley  looked  as  if  she 
had  not  heard.  She  often  did  when  anything  of  im- 
portance to  her  was  said.  It  was  important  to  her  to  be 
admitted  to  Lady  Holme's  house.  Everybody  went  there. 

77 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

It  was  one  of  the  very  smartest  houses  in  London,  and 
since  everybody  knew  that  she  had  been  introduced  to 
Lady  Holme,  since  half  the  world  was  comparing  their 
faces  and  would  soon  begin  to  compare  their  manner- 
isms— well,  it  would  be  better  that  she  should  not  be 
forced  into  any  revival  of  her  Philadelphia  talents. 

Mrs  Wolfstein  did  not  warn  Lady  Holme.  She  was 
far  too  fond  of  being  amused  to  do  anything  so  short- 
sighted. Indeed,  from  that  moment  she  was  inclined  to 
conspire  to  keep  the  Cadogan  Square  door  shut  against 
her  friend.  She  did  not  go  so  far  as  that,  for  she  had  a 
firm  faith  in  Pimpernel's  cuteness  and  was  aware  that  she 
would  be  found  out.  But  she  remained  passive  and  kept 
her  eyes  wide  open. 

Miss  Schley  was  only  going  to  act  for  a  month  in 
London.  Her  managers  had  taken  a  theatre  for  her 
from  the  first  of  June  till  the  first  of  July.  As  she  was 
to  appear  in  a  play  she  had  already  acted  in  all  over  the 
States,  and  as  her  American  company  was  coming  over 
to  support  her,  she  had  nothing  to  do  in  the  way  of 
preparation.  Having  arrived  early  in  the  year,  she  had 
nearly  three  months  of  idleness  to  enjoy.  Her  conver- 
sation with  Mrs  Wolfstein  took  place  in  the  latter  days 
of  March.  And  it  was  just  at  this  period  that  Lady 
Holme  began  seriously  to  debate  whether  she  should, 
or  should  not,  open  her  door  to  the  American.  She  knew 
Miss  Schley  was  determined  to  come  to  her  house.  She 
knew  her  house  was  one  of  those  to  which  any  woman 
setting  out  on  the  conquest  of  London  would  wish  to 
come.  She  did  not  want  Miss  Schley  there,  but  she  re- 
solved to  invite  her  if  people  talked  too  much  about  her 
not  being  invited.  And  she  wished  to  be  informed  if 
they  did.  One  day  she  spoke  to  Robin  Pierce  about  it. 
Lord  Holme's  treatment  of  Carey  had  not  yet  been  ap- 
plied to  him.    They  met  at  a  private  view  in  Bond  Street, 

78 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

given  by  a  painter  who  was  adored  by  the  smart  world, 
and,  as  yet,  totally  unknown  in  every  other  circle.  The 
exhibition  was  of  portraits  of  beautiful  women,  and  all 
the  beautiful  women  and  their  admirers  crowded  the 
rooms.  Both  Lady  Holme  and  Miss  Schley  had  been 
included  among  the  sitters  of  the  painter,  and — was  it  by 
chance  or  design? — their  portraits  hung  side  by  side 
upon  the  brown  paper-covered  walls.  Lady  Holme  was 
not  aware  of  this  when  she  caught  Robin's  eye  through  a 
crevice  in  the  picture  hats  and  called  him  to  her  with  a 
little  nod. 

"Is  there  tea?" 

"Yes.    In  the  last  room." 

"Take  me  there.  Oh,  there's  Ashley  Greaves.  Avoid 
him,  like  a  dear,  till  I've  looked  at  something." 

Ashley  Greaves  was  the  painter.  There  was  nothing 
of  the  Bohemian  about  him.  He  looked  like  a  heavy 
cavalry  officer  as  he  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room 
talking  to  a  small,  sharp-featured  old  lady  in  a  poke 
bonnet. 

"He's  safe.    Lady  Blower's  got  hold  of  him." 

"Poor  wretch!  She  ought  to  have  a  keeper.  Strong 
tea,  Robin." 

They  found  a  settee  in  a  corner  walled  in  by  the  backs 
of  tea-drinking  beauties. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  said  Lady  Holme, 
confidentially.  "You  go  about  and  hear  what  they're 
saying." 

"And  greater  nonsense  it  seems  each  new  season." 

"Nonsense  keeps  us  alive." 

"Is  it  the  oxygen  self-administered  by  an  almost  mori- 
bund society?" 

"It's  the  perfume  that  prevents  us  from  noticing  the 
stuffiness  of  the  room.  But,  Robin,  tell  me — what  is  the 
nonsense  of  now  ?" 

79 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE   FAN 

"Religious,  political,  theatrical,  divorce  court  or  what, 
Lady  Holme?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  touch  of  mischief  in  his  dark 
face,  which  told  her,  and  was  meant  to  tell  her,  that  he 
was  on  the  alert,  and  had  divined  that  she  had  a  purpose 
in  thus  pleasantly  taking  possession  of  him. 

"Oh,  the  people — nonsense.  You  know  perfectly  what 
I  mean." 

"Whom  are  they  chattering  about  most  at  the  mo- 
ment?   You'll  be  contemptuous  if  I  tell  you." 

"It  is  a  woman,  then?" 

"When  isn't  it?" 

"Do  I  know  her?'* 

"Slightly." 

"Well?" 

"Miss  Schley." 

"Really?" 

Lady  Holme's  voice  sounded  perfectly  indifferent  and 
just  faintly  surprised.  There  was  no  hint  of  irritation 
in  it. 

"And  what  are  they  saying  about  Miss  Schley,"  she 
added,  sipping  her  tea  and  glancing  about  the  crowded 
room. 

"Oh,  many  things,  and  among  the  many  one  that's 
more  untrue  than  all  the  rest  put  together." 

"What's  that?" 

"It's  too  absurd.    I  don't  think  I'll  tell  you." 

"But  why  not?  If  it's  too  absurd  it's  sure  to  be 
amusing." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

His  voice  sounded  almost  angry. 

"Tell  me,  Robin." 

He  looked  at  her  quickly  with  a  warm  light  in  his 
dark  eyes. 

"If  you  only  knew  how  I — " 

80 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE   FAN 

"Hush!    Go  on  about  Miss  Schley." 

"They're  saying  that  she's  wonderfully  like  you,  and 
that — have  some  more  tea?" 

"That—?" 

"That  you  hate  it." 

Lady  Holme  smiled,  as  if  she  were  very  much  enter- 
tained. 

"But  why  should  I  hate  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  women  invent  reasons  for  every- 
thing." 

"What  have  they  invented  for  this?" 

"Oh — well — that  you  like  to — I  can't  tell  you  it  all, 
really.  But  in  substance  it  comes  to  this.  They  are 
saying,  or  implying — " 

"Implication  is  the  most  subtle  of  the  social  arts." 

"It's  the  meanest — implying  that  all  that's  natural  to 
you,  that  sets  you  apart  from  others,  is  an  assumption 
to  make  you  stand  out  from  the  rest  of  the  crowd,  and 
that  you  hate  Miss  Schley  because  she  happens  to  have 
assumed  some  of  the  same  characteristics,  and  so  makes 
you  seem  less  unique  than  you  did  before." 

Lady  Holme  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
remarked, — 

"I'm  sure  no  woman  said  'less  unique.'  '* 

"Why  not?" 

"Now  did  anyone?    Confess!" 

"What  d'you  suppose  they  did  say  ?" 

"More  commonplace." 

He  could  not  help  laughing. 

"As  if  you  were  ever  commonplace!"  he  exclaimed, 
rather  relieved  by  her  manner. 

"That's  not  the  question.  But  then  Miss  Schley's  said 
to  be  like  me  not  only  in  appearance  but  in  other  ways? 
Are  we  really  so  Siamese?" 

"I  can't  see  the  faintest  beginning  of  a  resemblance." 

8i 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

"Ah,  now  you're  falling  into  exaggeration  in  the  other 
direction." 

"Well,  not  in  realities.  Perhaps  in  one  or  two  trifling 
mannerisms — I  believe  she  imitates  you  deliberately." 

"I  think  I  must  ask  her  to  the  house." 

"Why  should  you?" 

"Well,  perhaps  you  might  tell  me." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Aren't  people  saying  that  the  reason  I  don't  ask  her 
is  because  I  am  piqued  at  the  supposed  resemblance  be- 
tween us?" 

"Oh,  people  will  say  anything.  If  we  are  to  model  our 
lives  according  to  their  ridiculous  ideas — " 

"Well,  but  we  do." 

"Unless  we  follow  the  dictates  of  our  own  natures,  our 
own  souls." 

He  lowered  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper. 

"Be  yourself,  be  the  woman  who  sings,  and  no  one — 
not  even  a  fool — will  ever  say  again  that  you  resemble  a 
nonentity  like  Miss  Schley.  You  see — you  see  now  that 
even  socially  it  is  a  mistake  not  to  be  your  real  self.  You 
can  be  imitated  by  a  cute  little  Yankee  who  has  neither 
imagination  nor  brains,  only  the  sort  of  slyness  that  is 
born  out  of  the  gutter." 

"My  dear  Robin,  remember  where  we  are.  You — a 
diplomatist!" 

She  put  her  finger  to  her  lips  and  got  up. 

"We  must  look  at  something  or  Ashley  Greaves  will 
be  furious." 

They  made  their  way  into  the  galleries,  which  were 
almost  impassable.  In  the  distance  Lady  Holme  caught 
sight  of  Miss  Schley  with  Mrs  Wolfstein.  They  were 
surrounded  by  young  men.  She  looked  hard  at  the 
American's  pale  face,  saying  to  herself,  "Is  that  like 
me?    Is  that  like  me?"    Her  conversation  with  Robin 

82 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE   FAN 

Pierce  had  made  her  feel  excited.  She  had  not  shown 
it.  She  had  seemed,  indeed,  almost  oddly  indifferent. 
But  something-  combative  was  awake  within  her.  She 
wondered  whether  the  American  was  consciously  imi- 
tating her.  What  an  impertinence!  But  Miss  Schley 
was  impertinence  personified.  Her  impertinence  was  her 
raison  d'etre.  Without  it  she  would  almost  cease  to  be. 
She  would  at  anyrate  be  as  nothing. 

Followed  by  Robin,  Lady  Holme  made  her  way 
slowly  towards  the  Jewess  and  the  American. 

They  were  now  standing  together  before  the  pictures, 
and  had  been  joined  by  Ashley  Greaves,  who  was  be- 
ginning to  look  very  warm  and  expressive,  despite  his 
cavalry  moustache.  Their  backs  were  towards  the  room, 
and  Lady  Holme  and  Robin  drew  near  to  them  without 
being  perceived.  Mrs  Wolfstein  had  a  loud  voice  and 
did  not  control  it  in  a  crowd.  On  the  contrary,  she 
generally  raised  it,  as  if  she  wished  to  be  heard  by  those 
whom  she  was  not  addressing. 

"Sargent  invariably  brings  out  the  secret  of  his  sit- 
ters," she  was  saying  to  Ashley  Greaves  as  Lady  Holme 
and  Robin  came  near  and  stood  for  an  instant  wedged 
in  by  people,  unable  to  move  forward  or  backward. 
"You've  brought  out  the  similarities  between  Pimpernel 
and  Lady  Holme.  I  never  saw  anything  so  clever.  You 
show  us  not  only  what  we  all  saw  but  what  we  all  passed 
over  though  it  was  there  to  see.  There  is  an  absurd 
likeness,  and  you've  blazoned  it." 

Robin  stole  a  glance  at  his  companion.  Ashley 
Greaves  said,  in  a  thin  voice  that  did  not  accord  with 
his  physique, — 

"My  idea  was  to  indicate  the  strong  link  there  is  be- 
tween the  Englishwoman  and  the  American  woman.  If 
I  may  say  so,  these  two  portraits,  as  it  were,  personify  the 
two  countries,  and — er-— and — er — " 

83 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

His  mind  appeared  to  give  way.  He  strove  to  con- 
tinue, to  say  something-  memorable,  conscious  of  his  con- 
spicuous and  central  position.  But  his  intellect,  possibly 
over-heated  and  suffering  from  lack  of  air,  declined  to 
back  him  up,  and  left  him  murmuring  rather  hope- 
lessly,— 

"The  one  nation — er — and  the  other — yes — the  give 
and  take — the  give  and  take.  You  see  my  meaning? 
Yes,  yes." 

Miss  Schley  said  nothing.  She  looked  at  Lady  Holme's 
portrait  and  at  hers  with  serenity,  and  seemed  quite  un- 
conscious of  the  many  eyes  fastened  upon  her. 

"You  feel  the  strong  link,  I  hope.  Pimpernel?"  said 
Mrs  Wolfstein,  with  her  most  violent  foreign  accent. 
"Hands  across  the  Herring  Pond!" 

"Mr  Greaves  has  been  too  cute  for  words,"  she  replied. 
"I  wish  Lady  Holme  could  cast  her  eye  on  them." 

She  looked  up  at  nothing,  with  a  sudden  air  of  seeing 
something  interesting  that  was  happening  a  long  way  off. 

"Philadelphia!"  murmured  Mrs  Wolfstein,  with  an 
undercurrent  of  laughter. 

It  was  very  like  Lady  Holme's  look  when  she  was 
singing,  Robin  Pierce  saw  it  and  pressed  his  lips  to- 
gether. At  this  moment  the  crowd  shifted  and  left  a 
gap  through  which  Lady  Holme  immediately  glided 
towards  Ashley  Greaves.  He  saw  her  and  came  forward 
to  meet  her  with  eagerness,  holding  out  his  hand,  and 
smiling  mechanically  with  even  more  than  his  usual 
intention. 

"What  a  success!"  she  said. 

"If  it  is,  your  portrait  makes  it  so." 

"And  where  is  my  portrait?" 

Robin  Pierce  nipped  in  the  bud  a  rather  cynical  smile. 
The  painter  wiped  his  forehead  with  a  white  silk  hand- 
kerchief. 

84 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

"Can't  you  guess?    Look  where  the  crowd  is  thickest." 

The  people  had  again  closed  densely  round  the  two 
pictures. 

"You  are  an  artist  in  more  ways  than  one,  I'm  afraid," 
said  Lady  Holme.  "Don't  turn  my  head  more  than 
the  heat  has." 

The  searching  expression,  that  indicated  the  strong 
desire  to  say  something  memorable,  once  more  contorted 
the  painter's  face. 

"He  who  would  essay  to  fix  beauty  on  canvas,"  he 
began,  in  a  rather  piercing  voice,  "should  combine  two 
gifts." 

He  paused  and  lifted  his  upper  lip  two  or  three  times, 
employing  his  under-jaw  as  a  lever. 

"Yes  ?"  said  Lady  Holme,  encouragingly. 

"The  gift  of  the  brush  which  perpetuates  and  the  gift 
of — er — gift  of  the — " 

His  intellect  once  more  retreated  from  him  into  some 
distant  place  and  left  him  murmuring, — 

"Beauty  demands  all,  beauty  demands  all.  Yes,  yes! 
Sacrifice!    Sacrifice!    Isn't  it  so?" 

He  tugged  at  his  large  moustache,  with  an  abrupt 
assumption  of  the  cavalry  officer's  manner,  which  he 
doubtless  deemed  to  be  in  accordance  with  his  momen- 
tary muddle-headedness. 

"And  you  give  it  what  it  wants  most — the  touch  of 
the  ideal.    It  blesses  you.    Can  we  get  through?" 

She  had  glanced  at  Robin  while  she  spoke  the  first 
words.  Ashley  Greaves,  with  an  expression  of  sudden 
relief,  began  very  politely  to  hustle  the  crowd,  which 
yielded  to  his  persuasive  shoulders,  and  Lady  Holme 
found  herself  within  looking  distance  of  the  two  portraits, 
and  speaking  distance  of  Mrs  Wolfstein  and  Miss  Schley. 
She  greeted  them  with  a  nod  that  was  more  gay  and 
friendly  than  her  usual  salutations  to  women,  which  often 

85 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

lacked  bonhomie.     Mrs  Wolfstein's  too  expressive  face 
lit  up. 

"The  sensation  is  complete!"  she  exclaimed  loudly. 

"Hope  you're  well,"  murmured  Miss  Schley,  letting' 
her  pale  eyes  rest  on  Lady  Holme  for  about  a  quarter 
of  a  second,  and  then  becoming  acutely  attentive  to 
vacancy. 

Lady  Holme  was  now  in  front  of  the  pictures.  She 
looked  at  Miss  Schley's  portrait  with  apparent  interest, 
while  Mrs  Wolfstein  looked  at  her  with  an  interest  that 
was  maliciously  real. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs  Wolfstein.    "Well?" 

"There's  an  extraordinary  resemblance!"  said  Lady 
Holme.    "It's  wonderfully  like." 

"Even  you  see  it!  Ashley,  you  ought  to  be  trium- 
phant—" 

"Wonderfully  like — Miss  Schley,"  added  Lady  Holme, 
cutting  gently  through  Mrs  Wolfstein's  rather  noisy  out- 
burst. 

She  turned  to  the  American. 

"I  have  been  wondering  whether  you  won't  come  in 
one  day  and  see  my  little  home.  Everyone  wants  you,  I 
know,  but  if  you  have  a  minute  some  Wednesday — " 

"I'll  be  delighted." 

"Next  Wednesday  then  ?" 

"Thanks.     Next  Wednesday." 

"Cadogan  Square — the  red  book  will  tell  you.  But  I'll 
send  cards.    I  must  be  running  away  now." 

When  she  had  gone,  followed  by  Robin,  Mrs  Wolfstein 
said  to  Miss  Schley, — 

"She's  been  conquered  by  fear  of  Philadelphia." 

"Wait  till  I  give  her  Noo  York,"  returned  the  Amer- 
ican, placidly. 

It  seemed  that  Lady  Holme's  secret  hostility  to  Miss 
Schley  was  returned  by  the  vestal  virgin. 

86 


VII 

LORD  HOLME  seldom  went  to  parties  and  never 
to  private  views.  He  thought  such  things  "all 
damned  rot."  Few  functions  connected  with  the 
arts  appealed  to  his  frankly  Philistine  spirit,  which  re- 
joiced in  celebrations  linked  with  the  glories  of  the  body; 
boxing  and  wrestling  matches,  acrobatic  performances, 
weight-lifting  exhibitions,  and  so  forth.  He  regretted 
that  bear-baiting  and  cock-fighting  were  no  longer  legal 
in  England,  and  had,  on  two  occasions,  travelled  from 
London  to  South  America  solely  in  order  to  witness 
prize  fights. 

As  he  so  seldom  put  in  an  appearance  at  smart  gather- 
ings, he  had  not  yet  encountered  Miss  Schley,  nor  had 
he  heard  a  whisper  of  her  much-talked-of  resemblance 
to  his  wife.  Her  name  was  known  to  him  as  that  of  a 
woman  whom  one  or  two  of  his  "pals"  began  to  call  a 
"deuced  pretty  girl,"  but  his  interest  in  her  was  not 
greatly  awakened.  The  number  of  deuced  pretty  girls 
that  had  been  in  his  life,  and  in  the  lives  of  his  pals,  was 
legion.  They  came  and  went  like  feathers  dancing  on 
the  wind.  The  mere  report  of  them,  therefore,  casual  and 
drifting,  could  not  excite  his  permanent  attention,  or  fix 
their  names  and  the  record  of  their  charms  in  his  some- 
what treacherous  memory.  Lady  Holme  had  not  once 
mentioned  the  American  to  him.  She  was  a  woman  who 
knew  how  to  be  silent,  and  sometimes  she  was  silent  by 
instinct,  without  saying  to  herself  why. 

Lord  Holme  never  appeared  on  her  Wednesdays,  and, 

87 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE   FAN 

indeed,  those  days  were  a  rather  uncertain  factor  among 
the  London  joys.  If  Lady  Holme  was  to  be  found  in 
her  house  at  all,  she  was  usually  to  be  found  on  a 
Wednesday  afternoon.  She  herself  considered  that  she 
was  at  home  on  Wednesdays,  but  this  idea  of  hers  was 
often  a  mere  delusion,  especially  when  the  season  had 
fully  set  in.  There  were  a  thousand  things  to  be  done. 
She  frequently  forgot  what  the  day  of  the  week  was. 
Unluckily  she  forgot  it  on  the  Wednesday  succeeding 
her  invitation  to  Miss  Schley,  The  American  duly  turned 
up  in  Cadogan  Square  and  was  informed  that  Lady 
Holme  was  not  to  be  seen.  She  left  her  card  and  drove 
away  in  her  coupe  with  a  decidedly  stony  expression  upon 
her  white  face. 

That  day  it  chanced  that  Lord  Holme  came  in  just 
before  his  wife  and  carelessly  glanced  over  the  cards 
which  had  been  left  during  the  afternoon.  He  was 
struck  by  the  name  of  Pimpernel.  It  tickled  his  fancy 
somehow.  As  he  looked  at  it  he  grinned.  He  looked 
at  it  again  and  vaguely  recalled  some  shreds  of  the  club 
gossip  about  Miss  Schley's  attractions.  When  Lady 
Holme  walked  quietly  into  her  drawing-room  two  or 
three  minutes  later  he  met  her  with  Miss  Schley's  card 
in  his  hand. 

"What  have  you  got  there,  Fritz?"  she  said. 

He  gave  her  the  card. 

"You  never  told  me  you'd  run  up  against  her,"  he 
remarked. 

Lady  Holme  looked  at  the  card  and  then,  quickly,  at 
her  husband. 

"Why — do  you  know  Miss  Schley?"  she  asked. 

"Not  I." 

"Well  then?" 

"Fellows  say  she's  deuced  takin*.  That's  all.  And 
she's  got  a  fetchin'  name — eh?    Pimpernel." 

88 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

He  repeated  it  twice  and  began  to  grin  once  more, 
and  to  bend  and  straighten  his  legs  in  the  way  which 
sometimes  irritated  his  wife.  Lady  Holme  was  again 
looking  at  the  card. 

"Surely  it  isn't  Wednesday  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  it  is.    What  did  you  think  it  was?" 

"Tuesday — Monday — I  don't  know." 

"Where'd  you  meet  her?" 

"Whom?  Miss  Schley?  At  the  Carlton.  A  lunch  of 
Amalia  Wolfstein's." 

"Is  she  pretty  ?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  no  hesitation  before  the  reply. 

"What  colour?" 

"Oh!— not  Albino." 

Lord  Holme  stared. 

"What  d'you  mean  by  that,  girlie?" 

"That  Miss  Schley  is  remarkably  fair — fairer  than  I 
am. 

"Is  she  as  pretty  as  you?" 

"You  can  find  out  for  yourself.  I'm  going  to  ask  her 
to  something — presently." 

In  the  last  word,  in  the  pause  that  preceded  it,  there 
was  the  creeping  sound  of  the  reluctance  Lady  Holme 
felt  in  allowing  Miss  Schley  to  draw  any  closer  to  her 
life.    Lord  Holme  did  not  notice  it.    He  only  said, — 

"Right  you  are.  Pimpernel — I  should  like  to  have  a 
squint  at  her." 

"Very  well.    You  shall." 

"Pimpernel,"  repeated  Lord  Holme,  in  a  loud  bass 
voice,  as  he  lounged  out  of  the  room,  grinning. 

The  name  tickled  his  fancy  immensely.  That  was 
evident. 

Lady  Holme  fully  intended  to  ask  Miss  Schley  to  the 
"something"  already  mentioned  immediately.    But  some- 

89 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

how  several  days  slipped  by  and  it  was  difficult  to  find 
an  unoccupied  hour.  The  Holme  cards  had,  of  course, 
duly  gone  to  the  Carlton,  but  there  the  matter  had  ended, 
so  far  as  Lady  Holme  was  concerned.  Miss  Schley, 
however,  was  not  so  heedless  as  the  woman  she  resem- 
bled. She  began  to  return  with  some  assiduity  to  the 
practice  of  the  talent  of  the  old  Philadelphia  days.  In 
those  days  she  used  to  do  a  "turn"  in  the  course  of  which 
she  imitated  some  of  the  popular  public  favourites  of  the 
States,  and  for  each  of  her  imitations  she  made  up  to 
resemble  the  person  mimicked.  She  now  concentrated 
this  talent  upon  Lady  Holme,  but  naturally  the  methods 
she  employed  in  Society  were  far  more  subtle  than  those 
she  had  formerly  used  upon  the  stage.  They  were 
scarcely  less  eiTective.  She  slightly  changed  her  fashion 
of  doing  her  hair,  puffing  it  out  less  at  the  sides,  wearing 
it  a  little  higher  at  the  back.  The  change  accentuated 
her  physical  resemblance  to  Lady  Holme.  She  happened 
to  get  the  name  of  the  dressmaker  who  made  most  of  the 
latter's  gowns,  and  happened  to  give  her  an  order  that 
was  executed  with  remarkable  rapidity.  But  all  this  was 
only  the  foundation  upon  which  she  based,  as  it  were, 
the  structure  of  her  delicate  revenge. 

That  consisted  in  a  really  admirable  hint — it  could 
not  be  called  more — of  Lady  Holme's  characteristic 
mannerisms. 

Lady  Holme  was  not  an  affected  woman,  but,  like  all 
women  of  the  world  who  are  greatly  admired  and  much 
talked  about,  she  had  certain  little  ways  of  looking,  mov- 
ing, speaking,  being  quiet,  certain  little  habits  of  laughter, 
of  gravity,  that  were  her  own  property.  Perhaps  origin- 
ally natural  to  her,  they  had  become  slightly  accentuated 
as  time  went  on,  and  many  tongues  and  eyes  admired 
them.  That  which  had  been  unconscious  had  become 
conscious.      The    far-away    look    came    a    little    more 

90 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE   FAN 

abruptly,  went  a  little  more  reluctantly,  than  it  had  in 
the  young  girl's  days.  The  wistful  smile  lingered  more 
often  on  the  lips  of  the  twenties  than  on  the  lips  of  the 
teens.  Few  noticed  any  change,  perhaps,  but  there  had 
been  a  slight  change,  and  it  made  things  easier  for  Miss 
Schley. 

Her  eye  was  observant  although  it  was  generally  cast 
down.  Society  began  to  smile  secretly  at  her  talented 
exercises.  Only  a  select  few,  like  Mrs  Wolfstein,  knew 
exactly  what  she  was  doing  and  why  she  was  doing  it, 
but  the  many  were  entertained,  as  children  are,  without 
analysing  the  cause  of  their  amusement. 

Two  people,  however,  were  indignant — Robin  Pierce 
and  Rupert  Carey. 

Robin  Pierce,  who  had  an  instinct  that  was  almost 
feminine  in  its  subtlety,  raged  internally,  and  Rupert 
Carey,  who,  naturally  acute,  was  always  specially  shrewd 
when  his  heart  was  in  the  game,  openly  showed  his  dis- 
taste for  Miss  Schley,  and  went  about  predicting  her 
complete  failure  to  capture  the  London  public  as  an 
actress. 

"She's  done  it  as  a  woman,"  someone  replied  to  him. 

"Not  the  public,  only  the  smart  fools,"  returned  Carey. 

'The  smart  fools  have  more  influence  on  the  public 
every  day." 

Carey  only  snorted.  He  was  in  one  of  his  evil  moods 
that  afternoon.  He  left  the  club  in  which  the  conver- 
sation had  taken  place,  and,  casting  about  for  something 
to  do,  some  momentary  solace  for  his  irritation  and 
ennui,  he  bethought  him  of  Sir  Donald  Ulford's  invitation 
and  resolved  to  make  a  call  at  the  Albany.  Sir  Donald 
would  be  out,  of  course,  but  anyhow  he  would  chance  it 
and  shoot  a  card. 

Sir  Donald's  servant  said  he  was  in.  Carey  was  glad. 
Here  was  an  hour  filled  up. 

91 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE  FAN 

With  his  usual  hasty,  decisive  step  he  followed  the 
man  through  a  dark  and  Oriental-looking  vestibule  into 
a  library,  where  Sir  Donald  was  sitting  at  a  bureau  of 
teakwood,  slowly  writing  upon  a  large,  oblong  sheet  of 
foolscap  with  a  very  pointed  pen. 

He  got  up,  looking  rather  startled,  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you.    I  hoped  you  would  come." 

"I'm  disturbing  a  new  poem,"  said  Carey. 

Sir  Donald's  faded  face  acknowledged  it. 

"Sorry.    I'll  go." 

"No,  no.  I  have  infinite  leisure,  and  I  write  now  merely 
for  myself.  I  shall  never  publish  anything  more.  The 
maunderings  of  the  old  are  really  most  thoroughly  at 
home  in  the  waste-paper  basket.    Do  sit  down." 

Carey  threw  himself  into  a  deep  chair  and  looked 
round.  It  was  a  room  of  books  and  Oriental  china. 
The  floor  was  covered  with  an  exquisite  Persian  carpet, 
rich  and  delicate  in  colour,  with  one  of  those  vague  and 
elaborate  designs  that  stir  the  imagination  as  it  is  stirred 
by  a  strange  perfume  in  a  dark  bazaar  where  shrouded 
merchants  sit. 

"I  light  it  with  wax  candles,"  said  Sir  Donald,  hand- 
ing Carey  a  cigar. 

"It's  a  good  room  to  think  in,  or  to  be  sad  in." 

He  struck  a  match  on  his  boot. 

"You  like  to  shut  out  London,"  he  continued. 

"Yes.    Yet  I  live  in  it." 

"And  hate  it.  So  do  I.  London's  like  a  black-browed 
brute  that  gets  an  unholy  influence  over  you.  It  would 
turn  Mark  Tapley  into  an  Ibsen  man.  Yet  one  can't  get 
away  from  it." 

"It  holds  interesting  minds  and  interesting  faces." 

"Didn't  Persia?" 

"Lethargy  dwells  there  and  in  all  Eastern  lands." 

92 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"You  have  made  up  your  mind  to  spend  the  rest  of 
your  days  in  the  fog?" 

"No.  Indeed,  only  to-day  I  acquired  a  Campo  Santo 
with  cypress  trees,  in  which  I  intend  to  make  a  home  for 
any  dying  romance  that  still  lingers  within  me." 

He  spoke  with  a  sort  of  wistful  whimsicality.  Carey 
stared  hard  at  him. 

"A  Campo  Santo's  a  place  for  the  dead." 

"Why  not  for  the  dying?  Don't  they  need  holy  ground 
as  much?" 

"And  where's  this  holy  ground  of  yours?" 

Sir  Donald  got  up  from  his  chair,  went  over  to  the 
bureau,  opened  a  drawer,  and  took  out  of  it  a  large 
photograph  rolled  round  a  piece  of  wood,  which  he 
handed  to  Carey,  who  swiftly  spread  it  out  on  his  knees. 

"That  is  it." 

"I  say.  Sir  Donald,  d'you  mind  my  asking  for  a 
whisky-and-soda  ?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

He  hastily  touched  a  bell  and  ordered  it.  Meanwhile 
Carey  examined  the  photograph. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  Sir  Donald  asked. 

"Well— Italy  obviously." 

"Yes,  and  a  conventional  part  of  Italy." 

"Maggiore?" 

"No,  Como." 

"The  playground  of  the  honeymoon  couple." 

"Not  where  my  Campo  Santo  is.  They  go  to  Caden- 
abbia,  Bellagio,  Villa  D'Este  sometimes." 

"I  see  the  fascination.  But  it  looks  haunted.  You've 
bought  it?" 

"Yes.    The  matter  was  arranged  to-day." 

The  photograph  showed  a  large,  long  house,  or  rather 
two  houses  divided  by  a  piazza  with  slender  columns. 
In  the  foreground  was  water.     Through  the  arches  of 

93 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

the  piazza  water  was  also  visible,  a  cascade  falling  in  the 
black  cleft  of  a  mountain  gorge  dark  with  the  night  of 
cypresses.  To  the  right  of  the  house,  rising  from  the 
lake,  was  a  tall  old  wall  overgrown  with  masses  of  creep- 
ing plants  and  climbing  roses.  Over  it  more  cypresses 
looked,  and  at  the  base  of  it,  near  the  house,  were  a 
flight  of  worn  steps  disappearing  into  the  lake,  and  an 
arched  doorway  with  an  elaborately-wrought  iron  grille. 
Beneath  the  photograph  was  written,  "Casa  Felice." 

"Casa  Felice,  h'm!"  said  Carey,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
photograph. 

"You  think  the  name  inappropriate?" 

"Who  knows?  One  can  be  wretched  among  sun- 
beams. One  might  be  gay  among  cypresses.  And  Casa 
Felice  belongs  to  you?" 

"From  to-day." 

"Old— of  course?" 

"Yes.    There  is  a  romance  connected  with  the  house." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Long  ago  two  guilty  lovers  deserted  their  respective 
mates  and  the  brilliant  world  they  had  figured  in,  and 
fled  there  together." 

"And  quarrelled  and  were  generally  wretched  there 
for  how  many  months?" 

"For  eight  years." 

"The  devil!    Fidelity  gone  mad!" 

"It  is  said  that  during  those  years  the  mistress  never 
left  the  garden,  except  to  plunge  into  the  lake  on 
moonlight  nights  and  swim  through  the  silver  with  her 
lover." 

Carey  was  silent.  He  did  not  take  his  eyes  from 
the  photograph,  which  seemed  to  fascinate  him.  When 
the  servant  came  in  with  the  whisky-and-soda  he  started. 

"Not  a  place  to  be  alone  in,"  he  said. 

He  drank,  and  stared  again  at  the  photograph. 

94 


THE  WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"There's  something  about  the  place  that  holds  one 
even  in  a  photograph,"  he  added. 

"One  can  feel  the  strange  intrigue  that  made  the  house 
a  hermitage.    It  has  been  a  hermitage  ever  since." 

"Ah!" 

"An  old  Italian  lady,  very  rich,  owned  it,  but  never 
lived  there.  She  recently  died,  and  her  heir  consented  to 
sell  it  to  me." 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  see  it  in  the  flesh — or  the 
bricks  and  mortar.  But  it's  not  a  place  to  be  alone  in," 
repeated  Carey.  "It  wants  a  woman  if  ever  a  house 
did." 

"What  sort  of  woman?" 

Sir  Donald  had  sat  down  again  on  the  chair  opposite, 
and  was  looking  with  his  exhausted  eyes  through  the 
smoke  of  the  cigars  at  Carey. 

"A  fair  woman,  a  woman  with  a  white  face,  a  shm 
woman  with  eyes  that  are  cords  to  draw  men  to  her  and 
bind  them  to  her,  and  a  voice  that  can  sing  them  into 
the  islands  of  the  sirens." 

"Are  there  such  women  in  a  world  that  has  forgotten 
Ulysses?" 

"Don't  you  know  it?" 

He  rolled  the  photograph  round  the  piece  of  wood 
and  laid  it  on  a  table. 

"I  can  only  think  of  one  who  at  all  answers  to  your 
description." 

"The  one  of  whom  I  was  thinking." 

"Lady  Holme?" 

"Of  course." 

"Don't  you  think  she  would  be  dreadfully  bored  in 
Casa  Felice?" 

"Horribly,  horribly.    Unless—" 

"Unless?" 

"Who  knows  what?    But  there's  very  often  an  unless 

95 


THE  WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

hang-ing  about,  like  a  man  at  a  street  corner,  that — "  He 
broke  off,  then  added  abruptly,  ''Invite  me  to  Casa  Felice 
some  day." 

"I  do." 

"When  will  you  be  going  there?" 

"As  soon  as  the  London  season  is  over.  Some  time 
in  August.    Will  you  come  then?" 

"The  house  is  ready  for  you?" 

"It  will  be.  The  necessary  repairs  will  be  begun  now. 
I  have  bought  it  furnished." 

"The  lovers'"  furniture?" 

"Yes.  I  shall  add  a  number  of  my  own  things,  picked 
up  on  my  wanderings." 

"I'll  come  in  August  if  you'll  have  me.  But  I'll  give 
you  the  season  to  think  whether  you'll  have  me  or 
whether  you  won't.  I'm  a  horrible  bore  in  a  house — 
the  lazy  man  who  does  nothing  and  knows  a  lot.  Casa 
Felice — Casa  Felice.    You  won't  alter  the  name?" 

"Would  you  advise  me  to?" 

"I  don't  know.  To  keep  it  is  to  tempt  the  wrath  of 
the  gods,  but  I  should  keep  it." 

He  poured  out  another  whisky-and-soda  and  suddenly 
began  to  curse  Miss  Schley. 

Sir  Donald  had  spoken  to  her  after  Mrs  Wolfstein's 
lunch. 

"She's  imitating  Lady  Holme,"  said  Carey. 

"I  cannot  see  the  likeness,"  Sir  Donald  said,  "Miss 
Schley  seems  to  me  uninteresting  and  common." 

"She  is." 

"And  Lady  Holme's  personality  is,  on  the  contrary, 
interesting  and  uncommon." 

"Of  course.  Pimpernel  Schley  would  be  an  outrage 
in  that  Campo  Santo  of  yours.  And  yet  there  is  a  like- 
ness, and  she's  accentuating  it  every  day  she  lives." 

"Why?" 

96 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

"Ask  the  women  why  they  do  the  cursed  things  they 
do  do." 

"You  are  a  woman-hater?" 

"Not  I.  Didn't  I  say  just  now  that  Casa  FeUce  wanted 
a  woman?  But  the  devil  generally  dwells  where  the 
angel  dwells — cloud  and  moon  together.  Now  you  want 
to  get  on  with  that  poem." 

Half  London  was  smiling  gently  at  the  resemblance 
between  Lady  Holme  and  Miss  Schley  before  the  former 
made  up  her  mind  to  ask  the  latter  to  "something," 
And  when,  moved  to  action  by  certain  evidences  of  the 
Philadelphia  talent  which  could  not  be  misunderstood, 
she  did  make  up  her  mind,  she  resolved  that  the  "some- 
thing" should  be  very  large  and  by  no  means  very  inti- 
mate.   Safety  wanders  in  crowds. 

She  sent  out  cards  for  a  reception,  one  of  those  affairs 
that  begin  about  eleven,  are  tremendous  at  half  past,  look 
thin  at  twelve,  and  have  faded  away  long  before  the 
clock  strikes  one. 

Lord  Holme  hated  them.  On  several  occasions  he 
had  been  known  to  throw  etiquette  to  the  winds  and  not 
to  turn  up  when  his  wife  was  giving  them.  He  always 
made  what  he  considered  to  be  a  good  excuse.  Gener- 
ally he  had  "gone  into  the  country  to  look  at  a  horse." 
As  Lady  Holme  sent  out  her  cards,  and  saw  her  secretary 
writing  the  words,  "Miss  Pimpernel  Schley,"  on  an  en- 
velope which  contained  one,  she  asked  herself  whether 
her  husband  would  be  likely  to  play  her  false  this 
time. 

"Shall  you  be  here  on  the  twelfth?"  she  asked  him 
casually. 

"Why?    What's  up  on  the  twelfth?" 

"Fm  going  to  have  one  of  those  things  you  hate 
— before  the  Arkell  House  ball.  I  chose  that  night  so 
that  everyone  should  run  away  early.     You  won't  be 

97 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE   FAN 

obliged  to  look  at  a  horse  in  the  country  that  particular 
day?" 

She  spoke  laughingly,  as  if  she  wanted  him  to  say 
no,  but  would  not  be  very  angry  if  he  didn't.  Lord 
Holme  tugged  his  moustache  and  looked  very  serious 
indeed. 

"Another!"  he  ejaculated.  "We're  always  havin'  'em. 
Any  music?" 

"No,  no,  nothing.  There  are  endless  dinners  that 
night,  and  Mrs  Crutchby's  concert  with  Calve,  and  the 
ball.  People  will  only  run  in  and  say  something  silly  and 
run  out  again." 

"Who's  comin'?" 

"Everybody.  All  the  tiresome  dears  that  have  had 
their  cards  left." 

Lord  Holme  stared  at  his  varnished  boots  and  looked 
rather  like  a  puzzled  boy  at  a  viva  voce  examination. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,  I  can't  be  in  the  country  lookin' 
at  a  horse  that  night,"  he  said  with  depression. 

"Why  not?" 

She  hastily  added, — 

"But  why  should  you?    You  ought  to  be  here." 

"I'd  rather  be  lookin'  at  a  horse.  But  I'm  booked 
for  the  dinner  to  Rowley  at  the  Nation  Club  that  night. 
I  might  say  the  speeches  were  too  long  and  I  couldn't 
get  away.    Eh?" 

He  looked  at  her  for  support. 

"You  really  ought  to  be  here,  Fritz,"  she  answered. 

It  ended  there.  Lady  Holme  knew  her  husband  pretty 
well.  She  fancied  that  the  speeches  at  the  dinner  given 
to  Sir  Jacob  Rowley,  ex-Governor  of  some  place  she 
knew  nothing  about,  would  turn  out  to  be  very  lengthy 
indeed — speeches  to  keep  a  man  far  from  his  home  till 
after  midnight. 

On  the  evening  of  the  twelfth  Lord  Holme  had  not 
arrived  when  the  first  of  his  wife's  guests  came  slowly  up 

98 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

the  stairs,  and  Lady  Holme  began  gently  to  make  his 
excuses  to  all  the  tiresome  dears  who  had  had  their 
cards  left  at  forty-two  Cadogan  Square.  There  were  a 
great  many  tiresome  dears.  The  stream  flowed  steadily, 
and  towards  half-past  eleven  resembled  a  flood-tide. 

Lady  Cardington,  Lady  Manby,Mr  Bry,  Sally  Perceval 
had  one  by  one  appeared,  and  Robin  Pierce's  dark  head 
was  visible  mounting  slowly  amid  a  throng  of  other  heads 
of  all  shapes,  sizes  and  tints. 

Lady  Holme  was  looking  particularly  well.  She  was 
dressed  in  black.  Of  course  black  suits  everybody.  It 
suited  her  even  better  than  most  people,  and  her  gown 
was  a  triumph.  She  was  going  on  to  the  Arkell  House 
ball,  and  wore  the  Holme  diamonds,  which  were  superb, 
and  which  she  had  recently  had  reset.  She  was  in  per- 
fect health,  and  felt  unusually  young  and  unusually  de- 
fiant. As  she  stood  at  the  top  of  the  staircase,  smiling, 
shaking  hands  with  people,  and  watching  Robin  Pierce 
coming  slowly  nearer,  she  wondered  a  little  at  certain 
secret  uneasinesses — they  could  scarcely  be  called  trem- 
ors— which  had  recently  oppressed  her.  How  absurd 
of  her  to  have  been  troubled,  even  lightly,  by  the  im- 
pertinent proceedings  of  an  American  actress,  a  nobody 
from  the  States  without  position,  without  distinction, 
without  even  a  husband.  How  could  it  matter  to  her 
what  such  a  little  person — she  always  called  Pimpernel 
Schley  a  little  person  in  her  thoughts — did  or  did  not 
do?  As  Robin  came  towards  her  she  almost — but  not 
quite — wished  that  the  speeches  at  the  dinner  to  Sir 
Jacob  Rowley  had  not  been  so  long  as  they  evidently 
had  been,  and  that  her  husband  were  standing  beside  her, 
looking  enormous  and  enormously  bored. 

"What  a  crowd!" 

"Yes.  We  can't  talk  now.  Are  you  going  to  Arkell 
House?" 

99 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Robin  nodded. 

"Take  me  in  to  supper  there." 

"May  I?    Thank  you.    I'm  going  with  Rupert  Carey.'* 

"Really!" 

At  this  moment  Lady  Holme's  eyes  and  manner  wan- 
dered. She  had  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mrs  Wolfstein, 
a  mass  of  jewels,  and  of  Pimpernel  Schley  at  the  foot  of 
the  staircase,  had  just  noticed  that  the  latter  happened 
to  be  dressed  in  black. 

"Bye-bye!"  she  added. 

Robin  Pierce  walked  on  into  the  drawing-rooms  look- 
ing rather  preoccupied. 

Everybody  came  slowly  up  the  stairs.  It  was  im- 
possible to  do  anything  else.  But  it  seemed  to  Lady 
Holme  that  Miss  Schley  walked  far  more  slowly  than 
the  rest  of  the  tiresome  dears,  with  a  deliberation  that 
had  a  touch  of  insolence  in  it.  Her  straw-coloured  hair 
was  done  exactly  like  Lady  Holme's,  but  she  wore  no 
diamonds  in  it.  Indeed,  she  had  on  no  jewels.  And 
this  absence  of  jewels,  and  her  black  gown,  made  her 
skin  look  almost  startlingly  white,  if  possible  whiter  than 
Lady  Holme's.  She  smiled  quietly  as  she  mounted  the 
stairs,  as  if  she  were  wrapt  in  a  pleasant,  innocent  dream 
which  no  one  knew  anything  about. 

Amalia  Wolfstein  was  certainly  a  splendid — a  too  splen- 
did— foil  to  her.  The  Jewess  was  dressed  in  the  most 
vivid  orange  colour,  and  was  very  much  made  up.  Her 
large  eyebrows  were  heavily  darkened.  Her  lips  were 
scarlet.  Her  eyes,  which  moved  incessantly,  had  a  lustre 
which  suggested  oil  with  a  strong  light  shining  on  it. 
"Henry"  followed  in  her  wake,  looking  intensely  ner- 
vous, and  unnaturally  alive  and  observant,  as  if  he  were 
searching  in  the  crowd  for  a  bit  of  gold  that  someone 
had  accidentally  dropped.  When  anyone  spoke  to  him  he 
replied  with  extreme  vivacity  but  in  the  fewest  possible 

lOO 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

words.  He  held  his  spare  figure  slightly  sideways  as  he 
walked,  and  his  bald  head  glistened  under  the  electric 
lamps.  Behind  them,  in  the  distance,  was  visible  the 
yellow  and  sunken  face  of  Sir  Donald  Ulford. 

When  Miss  Schley  gained  the  top  of  the  staircase 
Lady  Holme  saw  that  their  gowns  were  almost  exactly 
alike.  Hers  was  sewn  with  diamonds,  but  otherwise 
there  was  scarcely  any  difference.  And  she  suddenly 
felt  as  if  the  difference  made  by  the  jewels  was  not 
altogether  in  her  favour,  as  if  she  were  one  of  those 
women  who  look  their  best  when  they  are  not  wearing 
any  ornaments.  Possibly  Mrs  Wolf  stein  made  all  jewel- 
lery seem  vulgar  for  the  moment.  She  looked  like  an 
exceedingly  smart  jeweller's  shop  rather  too  brilliantly 
illuminated;  "as  if  she  were  for  sale,"  as  an  old  and 
valued  friend  of  hers  aptly  murmured  into  the  ear  of 
someone  who  had  known  her  ever  since  she  began  to 
give  good  dinners. 

"Here  we  are!  I'm  chaperoning  Pimpernel.  But  her 
mother  arrives  to-morrow,"  began  Mrs  Wolfstein,  with 
her  strongest  accent,  while  Miss  Schley  put  out  a  limp 
hand  to  meet  Lady  Holme's  and  very  slightly  accentuated 
her  smile. 

"Your  mother?  I  shall  be  delighted  to  meet  her.  I 
hope  you'll  bring  her  one  day,"  said  Lady  Holme,  think- 
ing more  emphatically  than  ever  that  for  a  woman  with 
a  complexion  as  perfect  as  hers  it  was  a  mistake  to  wear 
many  jewels. 

"I'll  be  most  pleased,  but  mother  don't  go  around 
much,"  replied  Miss  Schley, 

"Does  she  know  London?" 

"She  does  not.  She  spends  most  of  her  time  sitting 
around  in  Susanville,  but  she's  bound  to  look  after  me  in 
this  great  city." 

Mrs  Wolfstein  was  by  this  time  in  violent  conversa- 

lOI 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

tion  with  a  pale  young  man,  who  always  looked  as  if  he 
were  on  the  point  of  fainting,  but  who  went  literally 
everywhere.  Miss  Schley  glanced  up  into  Lady  Holme's 
eyes. 

"I  hoped  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Lord  Holme 
to-night,"  she  murmured.  "Folks  tell  me  he's  a  most 
beautiful  man.    Isn't  he  anywhere  around?" 

She  looked  away  into  vacancy,  ardently.  Lady  Holme 
felt  a  slight  tingling  sensation  in  her  cool  skin.  For  a 
moment  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  watched  herself  in 
caricature,  distorted  perhaps  by  a  mirror  with  a  slight 
flaw  in  it. 

"Aly  husband  was  obliged  to  dine  out  to-night,  un- 
fortunately. I  hope  he'll  be  here  in  a  moment,  but  he 
may  be  kept  as  there  are  to  be  some  dreadful  speeches 
afterwards.  I  can't  think  why  elderly  men  always  want 
to  get  up  and  talk  nonsense  about  the  Royal  Family 
after  a  heavy  dinner.  It's  so  bad  for  the  digestion  and 
the — ah,  Sir  Donald!  Sweet  of  you  to  turn  up.  Your 
boy's  been  so  unkind.  I  asked  him  to  call,  or  he  asked 
to  call,  and  he's  never  been  near  me." 

Miss  Schley  drifted  away  and  was  swallowed  by  the 
crowd.    Sir  Donald  had  arrived  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"Leo's  been  away  in  Scotland  ever  since  he  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  you.  He  only  came  back  to- 
night." 

"Then  I'm  not  quite  so  hurt.  He's  always  running 
about,  I  suppose,  to  kill  things,  like  my  husband." 

"He  does  manage  a  good  deal  in  that  way.  If  you 
are  going  to  the  Arkell  House  ball  you'll  meet  him  there. 
He  and  his  wife  are  both — " 

"How  did  do!  Oh,  Charley,  I  never  expected  to  see 
you.  I  thought  it  wasn't  the  thing  for  the  2nd  to  turn 
up  at  little  hay  parties  like  this.  Kitty  Barringlave  is  in 
the  far  room,  dreadfully  bored.  Go  and  cheer  her  up. 

I02 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Tell  her  what'll  win  the  Cup.  She's  pale  and  peaky  with 
ignorance  about  Ascot  this  year.  Both  going-  to  Arkell 
House,  Sir  Donald,  did  you  say?  Bring  your  son  to 
me,  won't  you?  But  of  course  you're  a  wise  man  trotting 
off  to  bed." 

"No.  The  Duke  is  a  very  old  friend  of  mine,  and 
so—" 

"Perfect.  We'll  meet  then.  They  say  it's  really  loco- 
motor ataxy,  poor  fellow!  but — ah,  there's  Fritz!" 

Sir  Donald  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden  inquiring 
shrewdness,  that  lit  up  his  faded  eyes  and  made  them 
for  a  moment  almost  young.  He  had  caught  a  sound 
of  vexation  in  her  voice,  which  reminded  him  oddly  of 
the  sound  in  her  singing  voice  when  Miss  Filberte  was 
making  a  fiasco  of  the  accompaniment.  Lord  Holme 
was  visible  and  audible  in  the  hall.  His  immense  form 
towered  above  his  guests,  and  his  tremendous  bass  voice 
dominated  the  hum  of  conversation  round  him.  Lady 
Holme  could  see  from  where  she  stood  that  he  was  in  a 
jovial  and  audacious  mood.  The  dinner  to  Sir  Jacob 
Rowley  had  evidently  been  well  cooked  and  gay.  Fritz 
had  the  satisfied  and  rather  larky  air  of  a  man  who  has 
been  having  one  good  time  and  intends  to  have  another. 
She  glanced  into  the  drawing-rooms.  They  were 
crammed.  She  saw  in  the  distance  Lady  Cardington 
talking  to  Sir  Donald  Ulford.  Both  of  them  looked 
rather  pathetic.  Mrs  Wolfstein  was  not  far  off,  standing 
in  the  midst  of  a  group  and  holding  forth  with  almost 
passionate  vivacity  and  self-possession.  Her  husband 
was  gliding  sideways  through  the  crowd  with  his  pecu- 
liarly furtive  and  watchful  air,  which  always  suggested 
the  old  nursery  game,  "Here  I  am  on  Tom  Tiddler's 
ground,  picking  up  gold  and  silver."  Lady  Manby  was 
laughing  in  a  corner  with  an  archdeacon  who  looked 
like  a  guardsman  got  up  in  fancy  dress.     Mr  Bry,  his 

103 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

eyeglass  fixed  in  his  left  eye,  came  towards  the  staircase, 
moving  delicately  like  Agag,  and  occasionally  dropping 
a  cold  or  sarcastic  word  to  an  acquaintance.  He  reached 
Lady  Holme  when  Lord  Holme  was  half-way  up  the 
stairs,  and  at  once  saw  him. 

"A  giant  refreshed  with  wine,"  he  observed,  dropping 
his  eyeglass. 

It  was  such  a  perfect  description  of  Lord  Holme  in 
his  present  condition  that  two  or  three  people  who  were 
standing  with  Lady  Holme  smiled,  looking  down  the 
staircase.  Lady  Holme  did  not  smile.  She  continued 
chattering,  but  her  face  wore  a  discontented  expression. 
Mr  Bry  noticed  it.  There  were  very  few  things  he  did 
not  notice,  although  he  claimed  to  be  the  most  short- 
sighted man  in  London. 

"Why  is  your  husband  so  dutiful  to-night?"  he  mur- 
mured to  his  hostess.  "I  thought  he  always  had  to 
go  into  the  country  to  look  at  a  gee-gee  on  these  occa- 
sions." 

"He  had  to  be  in  town  for  the  dinner  to  Sir  Jacob 
Rowley.  I  begged  him  to  come  back  in — How  did  do! 
How  did  do!  Yes,  very.  Mr  Raleigh,  do  tell  the  opera 
people  not  to  put  on  Romeo  too  often  this  season. 
Of  course  Melba's  splendid  in  it,  and  all  that,  but 
still—" 

Mr  Bry  fixed  his  eyeglass  again,  and  began  to  smile 
gently  like  an  evil-minded  baby.  Lord  Holme's  brown 
face  was  full  in  view,  grinning.  His  eyes  were  looking 
about  with  unusual  vivacity. 

"How  early  you  are,  Fritz!  Good  boy.  I  want  you 
to  look  after—" 

"I  say,  Vi,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

Mr  Bry,  letting  his  eyeglass  fall,  looked  abstracted 
and  lent  an  attentive  ear.  If  he  were  not  playing  prompter 
to   social   comedies   he  generally   stood   in   the   wings, 

104 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

watching  and  listening  to  them  with  a  cold  amusement 
that  was  seldom  devoid  of  a  spice  of  venom. 

"Tell  you  what,  Fritz  ?" 

"That  Miss  Schley  was  comin'  to-night.  Everyone's 
talkin'  about  her.  I  sat  next  Laycock  at  dinner,  and  he 
was  ravin'.  Told  me  she  was  to  be  here  and  I  didn't 
know  it.    Rather  ridiculous,  you  know.    Where  is  she?" 

"Somewhere  in  the  rooms." 

"What's  she  like?" 

"Oh! — I  don't  know.  She's  in  black.  Go  and  look 
for  her." 

Lord  Holme  strode  on.  As  he  passed  Mr  Bry  he 
said, — ■ 

"I  say,  Bry,  d'you  know  Miss  Pimpernel  Schley?" 

"Naturally." 

"Come  with  me,  there's  a  good  chap,  and — what's 
she  Hke?" 

As  they  went  on  into  the  drawing-rooms  Mr  Bry 
dropped  out, — 

"Some  people  say  she's  like  Lady  Holme." 

"Like  Vi!  Is  she?  Laycock's  been  simply  ravin' — 
simply  ravin' — and  Laycock's  not  a  feller  to — where  is 
she?" 

"We  shall  come  to  her.  So  there  was  no  gee-gee  to 
look  at  in  the  country  to-night?" 

Lord  Holme  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"There's  the  vestal  tending  her  lamp,"  said  Mr  Bry 
a  moment  later. 

"The  what  up  to  what?" 

"Miss  Pimpernel  Schley  keeping  the  fire  of  adoration 
carefully  alight." 

"Where?" 

"There." 

"Oh,  I  see!  Jove,  what  a  skin,  though!  Eh!  Isn't 
it?     She  is  deuced  like  Vi  at  a  distance.     Vi  looks  up 

IOC 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

just  like  that  when  she's  singin'.  Doesn't  she,  though? 
Eh?" 

He  went  on  towards  her. 

Mr  Bry  followed  him,  murmuring, — 

"The  giant  refreshed  with  wine.  No  gee-gee  to-night. 
No  gee-gee." 


io6 


VIII 

THE  brougham  is  at  the  door,  my  lady." 
"Tell  his  lordship." 
The  butler  went  out,  and  Lady  Holme's  maid 
put  a  long  black  cloak  carefully  over  her  mistress's 
shoulders.  While  she  did  this  Lady  Holme  stood  quite 
still  gazing  into  vacancy.  They  were  in  the  now  deserted 
yellow  drawing-room,  which  was  still  brilliantly  lit,  and 
full  of  the  already  weary-looking  flowers  which  had  been 
arranged  for  the  reception.  The  last  guest  had  gone 
and  the  carriage  was  waiting  to  take  the  Holmes  to 
Arkell  House. 

The  maid  did  something  to  the  diamonds  in  Lady 
Holme's  hair  with  deft  fingers,  and  the  light  touch 
seemed  to  wake  Lady  Holme  from  a  reverie.  She  went 
to  a  mirror  and  looked  into  it  steadily.  The  maid  stood 
behind.  After  a  moment  Lady  Holme  lifted  her  hand 
suddenly  to  her  head,  as  if  she  were  going  to  take  off 
her  tiara.  The  maid  could  not  repress  a  slight  move- 
ment of  startled  astonishment.  Lady  Holme  saw  it  in 
the  glass,  dropped  her  hand,  and  said, — 

"C'est  tout,  Josephine.    Vous  pouvez  vous  en  alien" 

"Merci,  miladi." 

She  went  out  quietly. 

Two  or  three  minutes  passed.  Then  Lord  Holme's 
deep  bass  voice  was  audible,  humming  vigorously, — 

"  Ina,  Ina,  oh,  you  should  have  seen  herl 
Seen  her  with  her  eyes  cast  down. 
107 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

She  looked  upon  the  floor, 
And  all  the  Johnnies  swore 
That  Ina,  Ina — oh,  you  should  have  seen  her!— 
That  Ina  was  the  chic-est  girl  in  town." 

Lady  Holme  frowned. 

"Fritz!"  she  called  rather  sharply. 

Lord  Holme  appeared  with  a  coat  thrown  over  his 
arm  and  a  hat  in  his  hand.  His  brown  face  was  beaming 
with  self-satisfaction. 

"Well,  old  girl,  ready?    What's  up  now?" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  sing  those  horrible  music-hall 
songs.    You  know  I  hate  them." 

"Music-hall!  I  like  that.  Why,  it's  the  best  thing 
in  The  Chick  from  the  Army  and  Navy  at  the  Blue 
Theatre." 

"It's  disgustingly  vulgar." 

"What  next?    Why,  I  saw  the  Lord  Chan — " 

"I  daresay  you  did.  Vulgarity  will  appeal  to  the 
Saints  of  Heaven  next  season  if  things  go  on  as  they're 
going  now.    Come  along." 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  walking  more  quickly  than 
she  usually  walked,  and  holding  herself  very  upright. 
Lord  Holme  followed,  forming  the  words  of  his  favourite 
song  with  his  lips,  and  screwing  up  his  eyes  as  if  he 
were  looking  at  an  improper  peep-show.  When  they 
were  in  the  electric  brougham,  which  spun  along  with 
scarcely  any  noise,  he  began, — 

"I  say,  Vi,  how  long've  you  known  Miss  Schley?" 

"I  don't  know.    Some  weeks." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  did.    I  said  I  had  met  her  at  Mrs  Wolfstein's  lunch." 

"No,  but  why  didn't  you  tell  me  how  like  you  she 
was?" 

There  was  complete  silence  in  the  brougham  for  a 
minute.    Then  Lady  Holme  said, — 

io8 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

"I  had  no  idea  she  was  Hke  me." 

"Then  you're  blind,  old  girl.  She's  like  you  if  you'd 
been  a  chorus-girl  and  known  a  lot  of  things  you  don't 
know." 

"Really.    Perhaps  she  has  been  a  chorus-girl." 

"I'll  bet  she  has,  whether  she  says  so  or  not." 

He  gave  a  deep  chuckle.  Lady  Holme's  gown  rustled 
as  she  leaned  back  in  her  corner. 

"And  she's  goin'  to  Arkell  House.  Americans  are  the 
very  devil  for  gettin'  on.  Laycock  was  tellin'  me  to- 
night that — " 

"I  don't  wish  to  hear  Mr  Laycock's  stories,  Fritz. 
They  don't  amuse  me." 

"Well,  p'r'aps  they're  hardly  the  thing  for  you,  Vi. 
But  they're  deuced  amusin'  for  all  that." 

He  chuckled  again.  Lady  Holme  felt  an  intense  desire 
to  commit  some  act  of  physical  violence.  She  shut  her 
eyes.  In  a  minute  she  heard  her  husband  once  more 
beginning  to  hum  the  refrain  about  Ina.  How  utterly 
careless  he  was  of  her  desires  and  requests.  There  was 
something  animal  in  his  forgetfulness  and  indifference. 
She  had  loved  the  animal  in  him.  She  did  love  it.  Some- 
thing deep  down  in  her  nature  answered  eagerly  to  its 
call.  But  at  moments  she  hated  it  almost  with  fury. 
She  hated  it  now  and  longed  to  use  the  whip,  as  the 
tamer  in  a  menagerie  uses  it  when  one  of  his  beasts 
shows  its  teeth,  or  sulkily  refuses  to  perform  one  of  its 
tricks. 

Lord  Holme  went  on  calmly  humming  till  the 
brougham  stopped  in  the  long  line  of  carriages  that 
stretched  away  into  the  night  from  the  great  portico 
of  Arkell  House. 

People  were  already  going  in  to  supper  when  the 
Holmes  arrived.  The  Duke,  upon  whom  a  painful 
malady  was  beginning  to  creep,  was  bravely  welcoming 

109 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

his  innumerable  guests.  He  found  it  already  impossible 
to  go  unaided  up  and  down  stairs,  and  sat  in  a  large 
armchair  close  to  the  ballroom,  with  one  of  his  pretty 
daughters  near  him^,  talking  brightly,  and  occasionally 
stealing  wistful  glances  at  the  dancers,  who  were  visible 
through  a  high  archway  to  his  left.  He  was  a  thin, 
middle-aged  man,  with  a  curious,  transparent  look  in  his 
face — something  crystalline  that  was  nearly  beautiful. 

The  Duchess  was  swarthy  and  masterful,  very  intelli- 
gent and  grande  dame.  Vivacity  was  easy  to  her.  People 
said  she  had  been  a  good  hostess  in  her  cradle,  and  that 
she  had  presided  over  the  ceremony  of  her  own  baptism 
in  a  most  autocratic  and  successful  manner.  It  was  quite 
likely. 

After  a  word  with  the  Duke  Lady  Holme  went  slowly 
towards  the  ballroom  with  her  husband.  She  did  not 
mean  to  dance,  and  began  to  refuse  the  requests  of 
would-be  partners  with  charming  protestations  of  fatigue. 
Lord  Holme  was  scanning  the  ballroom  with  his  big 
brown  eyes. 

"Are  you  going  to  dance,  Fritz?"  asked  Lady  Holme, 
nodding  to  Robin  Pierce,  whom  she  had  just  seen  stand- 
ing at  a  little  distance  with  Rupert  Carey. 

The  latter  had  not  seen  her  yet,  but  as  Robin  returned 
her  nod  he  looked  hastily  around. 

"Yes,  I  promised  Miss  Schley  to  struggle  through  a 
waltz  with  her.    Wonder  if  she's  dancin'?" 

Lady  Holme  bowed,  a  little  ostentatiously,  to  Rupert 
Carey.  Her  husband  saw  it  and  began  at  once  to  look 
pugiHstic.  He  could  not  say  anything,  for  at  this  mo- 
ment two  or  three  men  strolled  up  to  speak  to  Lady 
Holme.  While  she  was  talking  to  them  Pimpernel  Schley 
came  in  sight  waltzing  with  Mr  Laycock,  one  of  those 
abnormally  thin,  narrow-featured,  smart  men,  with  bold, 
inexpressive  eyes,  in  whom  London  abounds. 

no 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Lord  Holme's  under-jaw  resumed  its  natural  position, 
and  he  walked  away  and  was  lost  in  the  crowd,  following 
the  two  dancers. 

"Take  me  in  to  supper,  Robin.    I'm  tired." 

"This  way.    I  thought  you  were  never  coming." 

"People  stayed  so  late.  I  can't  think  why.  I'm  sure 
it  was  dreadfully  dull  and  foolish.  How  odd  Mr  Carey's 
looking!  When  I  bowed  to  him  just  now  he  didn't  re- 
turn it,  but  only  stared  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  stranger." 

Robin  Pierce  made  no  rejoinder.  They  descended 
the  great  staircase  and  went  towards  the  picture-gal- 
lery. 

"Find  a  corner  where  we  can  really  talk." 

"Yes,  yes." 

He  spoke  eagerly. 

**'Here — this  is  perfect." 

They  sat  down  at  a  table  for  two  that  was  placed  in 
an  angle  of  the  great  room.  Upon  the  walls  above  them 
looked  down  a  Murillo  and  a  Velasquez.  Lady  Holme 
was  under  the  Murillo,  which  represented  three  Spanish 
street  boys  playing  a  game  in  the  dust  with  pieces  of 
money. 

"A  table  for  two,"  said  Robin  Pierce.  "I  have  always 
said  that  the  Duchess  understands  the  art  of  entertaining 
better  than  anyone  in  London,  except  you — when  you 
choose." 

"To-night  I  really  couldn't  choose.  Later  on,  I'm 
going  to  give  two  or  three  concerts.  Is  anything  the 
matter  with  Mr.  Carey?" 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Well,  I  hope  it  isn't  true  what  people  are  saying." 

"What  are  they  saying?" 

"That  he's  not  very  judicious  in  one  way." 

A  footman  poured  champagne  into  her  glass.  Robin 
Pierce  touched  the  glass. 

Ill 


■THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"That  way?" 

"Yes.    It  would  be  too  sad." 

"Let  us  hope  it  isn't  true,  then." 

"You  know  him  well.    Is  it  true?" 

"Would  you  care  if  it  was  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

"Yes.    I  like  Mr.  Carey." 

There  was  a  rather  unusual  sound  of  sincerity  in  her 
voice. 

"And  what  is  it  that  you  like  in  him?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  talks  shocking  nonsense  of 
course,  and  is  down  on  people  and  things.  And  he's 
absurdly  unsophisticated  at  moments,  though  he  knows 
the  world  so  well.  He's  not  like  you — not  a  diplomat. 
But  I  believe  if  he  had  a  chance  he  might  do  something 
great." 

Robin  felt  as  if  the  hidden  woman  had  suddenly  begun 
to  speak.    Why  did  she  speak  about  Rupert  Carey? 

"Do  you  like  a  man  to  do  something  great?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes.    All  women  do." 

"But  I  perpetually  hear  you  laughing  at  the  big  people 
— the  Premiers,  the  Chancellors,  the  Archbishops,  the 
Generals  of  the  world." 

"Because  I've  always  known  them.  And  really  they 
are  so  often  quite  absurd  and  tiresome." 

"And— Rupert  Carey?" 

"Oh,  he's  nothing  at  all,  poor  fellow!  Still,  there's 
something  in  his  face  that  makes  me  think  he  could 
do  an  extraordinary  thing  if  he  had  the  chance.  I  saw 
it  there  to-night  when  he  didn't  bow  to  me.  There's  Sir 
Donald's  son.  And  what  a  dreadful-looking  woman  just 
behind  him." 

Leo  Ulford  was  coming  down  the  gallery  with  a  gaunt, 
aristocratic,  harsh-featured  girl.  Behind  him  walked  Mr 
Bry,  conducting  a  very  young  old  woman,  immensely 

112 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

smart,  immensely  vivacious,  and  immensely  pink,  who 
moved  with  an  unnecessary  alertness  that  was  birdlike, 
and  turned  her  head  about  sharply  on  a  long,  thin  neck 
decorated  with  a  large  diamond  dog-collar.  Slung  at 
her  side  there  was  a  tiny  jewelled  tube. 

"That's  Mrs  Leo." 

"She  must  be  over  sixty." 

"She  is." 

The  quartet  sat  down  at  the  next  table.  Leo  Ulford 
did  not  see  Lady  Holme  at  once.  When  he  caught  sight 
of  her  he  got  up,  came  to  her,  stood  over  her  and  pressed 
her  hand. 

"Been  away,"  he  explained.    "Only  back  to-night." 

"I've  been  complaining  to  your  father  about  you." 

A  slow  smile  overspread  his  chubby  face. 

"May  I  see  you  again  after  supper?" 

"If  you  can  find  me." 

"I  can  always  manage  to  find  what  I  want,"  he  re- 
turned, still  smiling. 

When  he  had  gone  back  to  his  table  Robin  Pierce 
said, — 

"How  insolent  Englishmen  are  allowed  to  be  in  So- 
ciety! It  always  strikes  me  after  I've  been  a  long  time 
abroad.     Doesn't  anybody  mind  it?" 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  consider  Mr  Ulford  insolent?" 

"In  manner.    Yes,  I  do." 

"Well,  I  think  there's  something  like  Fritz  about 
him." 

Robin  Pierce  could  not  tell  from  the  way  this  was 
said  what  would  be  a  safe  remark  to  make.  He  therefore 
changed  the  subject. 

"Do  you  know  what  Sir  Donald's  been  doing?"  he 
said. 

"No.    What?" 

"Buying  a  Campo  Santo." 

"3 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"A  Campo  Santo!  Is  he  going  to  bury  himself,  then? 
.What  do  you  mean,  Robin?" 

"He  called  it  a  Campo  Santo  to  Carey.  It's  really  a 
wonderful  house  in  Italy,  on  Como.  Casa  Felice  is  the 
name  of  it.    I  know  it  well." 

"Casa  Felice.  How  delicious!  But  is  it  the  place  for 
Sir  Donald?" 

"Why  not?" 

"For  an  old,  tired  man.  Casa  Felice.  Won't  the  name 
seem  an  irony  to  him  when  he's  there?" 

"You  think  an  old  man  can't  be  happy  anywhere?" 

"I  can't  imagine  being  happy  old." 

"Why  not?" 

"Oh!" — she  lowered  her  voice — "if  you  want  to  know, 
look  at  Mrs  Ulford." 

"Your  husk  theory  again.  A  question  of  looks.  But 
you  will  grow  old  gracefully — some  day  in  the  far  fu- 
ture." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  grow  old  at  all." 

"Then—?" 

"I  think  I  shall  die  before  that  comes — say  at  forty- 
five.  I  couldn't  live  with  wrinkles  all  over  my  face.  No, 
Robin,  I  couldn't.  And — look  at  Mrs  Ulford! — perhaps 
an  ear-trumpet  set  with  opals." 

"What  do  the  wrinkles  matter?  But  some  day  you'll 
find  I'm  right.  You'll  tell  me  so.  You'll  acknowledge 
that  your  charm  comes  from  within,  and  has  survived 
the  mutilation  of  the  husk." 

"Mutilation!  What  a  hideous  sound  that  word  has. 
Why  don't  all  mutilated  people  commit  suicide  at  once? 
I  should.  Is  Sir  Donald  going  to  live  in  his  happy 
house?" 

"Naturally.  He'll  be  there  this  August.  He's  invited 
Rupert  Carey  to  stay  there  with  him." 

"And  you?" 

114 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Not  yet." 

"I  suppose  he  will.  Everybody  always  asks  you  every- 
where.   Diplomacy  is  so  universally — " 

She  broke  off.  Far  away,  at  the  end  of  the  gallery, 
she  had  caught  sight  of  Miss  Schley  coming  in  with 
her  husband.  They  sat  down  at  a  table  near  the  door. 
Robin  Pierce  followed  her  eyes  and  understood  her 
silence. 

"Are  you  going  on  the  first?"  he  asked. 

"What  to?" 

"Miss  Schley's  first  night." 

"Is  it  on  the  first?  I  didn't  know.  We  can't.  We're 
dining  at  Brayley  House  that  evening." 

"What  a  pity!"  he  said,  with  a  light  touch  of  half 
playful  malice.  "You  would  have  seen  her  as  she  really 
is — from  all  accounts." 

"And  what  is  Miss  Schley  really?" 

"The  secret  enemy  of  censors." 

"Oh!" 

"You  dislike  her.    Why?" 

"I  don't  dislike  her  at  all." 

"Do  you  like  her?" 

"No.  I  like  very  few  women.  I  don't  understand 
them." 

"At  anyrate  you  understand — say  Miss  Schley — better 
than  a  man  would." 

"Oh— a  man!" 

"I  believe  all  women  think  all  men  fools." 

Lady  Holme  laughed,  not  very  gaily. 

"Don't  they?"  he  insisted. 

"In  certain  ways,  in  certain  relations  of  life,  I  suppose 
most  men  are — rather  short-sighted." 

"Like  Mr  Bry." 

"Mr  Bry  is  the  least  short-sighted  man  I  know.  That's 
why  he  always  wears  an  eyeglass." 

115 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"To  create  an  illusion?" 

"Who  knows?" 

She  looked  down  the  long  room.  Between  the  heads 
of  innumerable  men  and  women  she  could  see  Miss 
Schley.  Her  husband  was  hidden.  She  would  have 
preferred  to  see  him.  Miss  Schley's  head  was  by  no 
means  expressive  of  the  naked  truth.  It  merely  looked 
cool,  self-possessed,  and — so  Lady  Holme  said  to  her- 
self— extremely  American.  What  she  meant  by  that  she 
could,  perhaps,  hardly  have  explained. 

"Do  you  admire  Miss  Schley's  appearance?" 

Robin  Pierce  spoke  again  with  a  touch  of  humorous 
malice.  He  knew  Lady  Holme  so  well  that  he  had  no 
objection  to  seem  wanting  in  tact  to  her  when  he  had 
a  secret  end  to  gain.  She  looked  at  him  sharply,  lean- 
ing forward  over  the  table  and  opening  her  eyes  very 
wide. 

"Why  are  you  forgetting  your  manners  to-night  and 
bombarding  me  with  questions?" 

"The  usual  reason — devouring  curiosity." 

She  hesitated,  looking  at  him.  Then  suddenly  her 
face  changed.  Something,  some  imp  of  adorable  frank- 
ness, peeped  out  of  it  at  him,  and  her  whole  body  seemed 
confiding. 

"Miss  Schley  is  going  about  London  imitating  me. 
Now,  isn't  that  true?    Isn't  she?" 

"I  believe  she  is.    Damned  impertinence!" 

He  muttered  the  last  words  under  his  breath. 

"How  can  I  admire  her?" 

There  was  something  in  the  way  she  said  that  which 
touched  him.    He  leaned  forward  to  her. 

"Why  not  punish  her  for  it?" 

"How?" 

"Reveal  what  she  can't  imitate.'* 

"What's  that?" 

ii6 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"All  you  hide  and  I  divine," 

"Go  on." 

"She  mimics  the  husk.  She  couldn't  mimic  the 
kernel." 

"Ice,  my  lady?" 

Lady  Holme  started.  Till  the  footman  spoke  she  had 
not  quite  realised  how  deeply  interested  she  was  in  the 
conversation.    She  helped  herself  to  some  ice. 

"You  can  go  on,  Mr  Pierce,"  she  said  when  the  man 
had  gone. 

"But  you  understand." 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling.  Her  body  still  looked 
soft  and  attractive,  and  deliciously  feminine. 

"Miss  Schley  happens  to  have  some  vague  resem- 
blance to  you  in  height  and  colouring.  She  is  a  clever 
mimic.    She  used  to  be  a  professional  mimic." 

"Really!" 

"That  was  how  she  first  became  known." 

"In  America?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  should  she  imitate  me?" 

"Have  you  been  nice  to  her?" 

"I  don't  know.    Yes.    Nice  enough." 

Robin  shook  his  head. 

"You  think  she  dislikes  me  then?" 

"Do  women  want  definite  reasons  for  half  the  things 
they  do?  Miss  Schley  may  not  say  to  herself  that  she 
dislikes  you,  any  more  than  you  say  to  yourself  that  you 
dislike  her.    Nevertheless — " 

"We  should  never  get  on.    No." 

"Consider  yourselves  enemies — for  no  reasons,  or 
secret  woman's  reasons.     It's  safer." 

Lady  Holme  looked  down  the  gallery  again.  Miss 
Schley's  fair  head  was  bending  forward  to  some  invisible 
person. 

1117 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"And  the  mimicry?"  she  asked,  turning  again  to 
Robin. 

"Can  only  be  appHed  to  mannerisms,  to  the  ninety- 
ninth  part,  the  inconsiderable  fraction  of  your  charm. 
Miss  Schley  could  never  imitate  the  hidden  woman,  the 
woman  who  sings,  the  woman  who  laughs  at,  denies 
herself  when  she  is  not  singing." 

"But  no  one  cares  for  her — if  she  exists," 

There  was  a  hint  of  secret  bitterness  in  her  voice  when 
she  said  that. 

"Give  her  a  chance — and  find  out.  But  you  know 
already  that  numbers  do." 

He  tried  to  look  into  her  eyes,  but  she  avoided  his 
gaze  and  got  up. 

"Take  me  back  to  the  ballroom." 

"You  are  going  to  dance?" 

"I  want  to  see  who's  here." 

As  they  passed  the  next  table  Lady  Holme  nodded 
to  Leo  Ulford.  He  bowed  in  return  and  indicated  that 
he  was  following  almost  immediately.  Mrs  Ulford  put 
down  her  ear-trumpet,  turned  her  head  sharply,  and 
looked  at  Lady  Holme  sideways,  fluttering  her  pink  eye- 
lids. 

"How  exactly  like  a  bird  she  is,"  murmured  Lady 
Holme. 

"Exactly — moulting." 

Lady  Holme  meant,  as  she  walked  down  the  gallery, 
to  stop  and  speak  a  few  gay  words  to  Miss  Schley  and 
her  husband,  but  when  she  drew  near  to  their  table 
Lord  Holme  was  holding  forth  with  such  unusual  volu- 
bility, and  Miss  Schley  was  listening  with  such  profound 
attention,  that  it  did  not  seem  worth  while,  and  she  went 
quietly  on,  thinking  they  did  not  see  her.  Lord  Holme 
did  not.  But  the  American  smiled  faintly  as  Lady  Holme 
and  Robin  disappeared  into  the  hall.  Then  she  said,  in 
reply  to  her  animated  companion, — 

ii8 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"I'm  sure  if  I  am  like  Lady  Holme  I  ought  to  say 
Te  Deum  and  think  myself  a  lucky  girl.    I  ought  indeed." 

Lady  Holme  had  not  been  in  the  ballroom  five  min- 
utes before  Leo  Ulford  came  up  smiling. 

"Here  I  am,"  he  remarked,  as  if  the  statement  were 
certain  to  give  universal  satisfaction. 

Robin  looked  black  and  moved  a  step  closer  to  Lady 
Holme. 

"Thank  you,  Mr  Pierce,"  she  said. 

She  took  Leo  Ulford's  arm,  nodded  to  Robin,  and 
walked  away. 

Robin  stood  looking  after  her.  He  started  when  he 
hard  Carey's  voice  saying, — 

"Why  d'you  let  her  dance  with  that  blackguard?" 

"Hulloa,  Carey!" 

"Come  to  the  supper-room.  I  want  to  have  a  yarn 
with  you.  And  all  this" — he  made  a  wavering,  yet  vio- 
lent, gesture  towards  the  dancers — "might  be  a  Hol- 
bein." 

"A  dance  of  death?    What  nonsense  you  talk!" 

"Come  to  the  supper-room." 

Robin  looked  at  his  friend  narrowly. 

"You're  bored.  Let's  go  and  take  a  stroll  down  Park 
Lane." 

"No.    Well,  then,  if  you  won't—" 

"I'll  come." 

He  put  his  arm  through  Carey's  and  they  went  out 
together. 

Lady  Holme  was  generally  agreeable  to  men.  She 
was  particularly  charming  to  Leo  Ulford  that  night. 
He  was  not  an  interesting  man,  but  he  seemed  to  interest 
her  very  much.  They  sat  out  together  for  a  long  time 
in  the  corner  of  a  small  drawing-room,  far  away  from 
the  music.  She  had  said  to  Robin  Pierce  that  she  thought 
there  was  something  about  Leo  Ulford  that  was  like  her 

119 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

husband,  and  when  she  talked  to  him  she  found  the  re- 
semblance even  greater  than  she  had  supposed. 

Lord  Holme  and  Leo  Ulford  were  of  a  similar  type. 
Both  were  strong,  healthy,  sensual,  slangy,  audacious  in 
a  dull  kind  of  fashion — Lady  Holme  did  not  call  it  dull — 
serenely  and  perpetually  intent  upon  having  everything 
their  own  way  in  life.  Both  lived  for  the  body  and 
ignored  the  soul,  as  they  would  have  ignored  a  man 
with  a  fine  brain,  a  passionate  heart,  a  narrow  chest  and 
undeveloped  muscles.  Such  a  man  they  would  have 
summed  up  as  "a  rotter."  If  they  ever  thought  of  the 
soul  at  all,  it  was  probably  under  some  such  comprehen- 
sive name.  Both  had  the  same  simple  and  blatant  aim  in 
life,  an  aim  which  governed  all  their  actions  and  was  the 
generator  of  most  of  their  thoughts.  This  aim,  ex- 
pressed in  their  own  terse  language,  was  "to  do  them- 
selves jolly  well."  Both  had,  so  far,  succeeded  in  their 
ambition.  Both  were,  consequently,  profoundly  con- 
vinced of  their  own  cleverness.  Intellectual  conceit — the 
conceit  of  the  brain — is  as  nothing  to  physical  conceit — 
the  conceit  of  the  body.  Acute  intelligence  is  always 
capable  of  uneasiness,  can  always  make  room  for  a  doubt. 
But  the  self-satisfaction  of  the  little-brained  and  big- 
muscled  man  who  has  never  had  a  rebufif  or  a  day's  ill- 
ness is  cased  in  triple  brass.  Lady  Holme  knew  this 
self-satisfaction  well.  She  had  seen  it  staring  out  of  her 
husband's  big  brown  eyes.  She  saw  it  now  in  the  boyish 
eyes  of  Leo  Ulford.  She  was  at  home  with  it  and  rather 
liked  it.  In  truth,  it  had  at  least  one  merit — from  the 
woman's  point  of  view — it  was  decisively  masculine. 

Whether  Leo  Ulford  was,  or  was  not,  a  blackguard, 
as  Mrs  Trent  had  declared,  did  not  matter  to  her.  Three- 
quarters  of  the  men  she  knew  were  blackguards  accord- 
ing to  the  pinched  ideas  of  Little  Peddlington,  and  Mrs 
Trent  might  originally  have  issued  from  there. 

120 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

She  got  on  easily  with  Leo  Ulford  because  she  was 
experienced  in  the  treatment  of  his  type.  She  knew 
exactly  what  to  do  with  it;  how  to  lead  it  on,  how  to 
fend  it  oflf,  how  to  throw  cold  water  on  its  enterprise 
without  dashing  it  too  greatly,  how  to  banish  any  little, 
sulky  cloud  that  might  appear  on  the  brassy  horizon 
without  seeming  to  be  solicitous. 

The  type  is  amazingly  familiar  to  the  woman  of  the 
London  world.  She  can  recognise  it  at  a  glance,  and 
can  send  it  in  its  armchair  canter  round  the  circus  with 
scarce  a  crack  of  the  ring-mistress's  whip. 

To-night  Lady  Holme  enjoyed  governing  it  more  than 
usual,  and  for  a  subtle  reason. 

In  testing  her  power  upon  Leo  Ulford  she  was  secretly 
practising  her  siren's  art,  with  a  view  that  would  have 
surprised  and  disgusted  him,  still  more  amazed  him, 
had  he  known  it.  She  was  firing  at  the  dummy  in  order 
that  later  she  might  make  sure  of  hitting  the  Hving  man. 
Leo  Ulford  was  the  dummy.  The  living  man  would  be 
Fritz. 

Both  dummy  and  living  man  were  profoundly  igno- 
rant of  her  moving  principle.  The  one  was  radiant  with 
self-satisfaction  under  her  fusillade.  The  other,  ignorant 
of  it  so  far,  would  have  been  furious  in  the  knowledge 
of  it. 

She  knew — and  laughed  at  men. 

Presently  she  turned  the  conversation,  which  was  get- 
ting a  little  too  personal — on  Leo  Ulford's  side — to  a 
subject  very  present  in  her  mind  that  night. 

"Did  you  have  a  talk  with  Miss  Schley  the  other  day 
after  I  left?"  she  asked.  'T  ran  away  on  purpose  to  give 
you  a  chance.  Wasn't  it  good-natured  of  me,  when  I 
was  really  longing  to  stay?" 

Leo  Ulford  stretched  out  his  long  legs  slowly,  his 
type's  way  of  purring. 

121 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"I'd  rather  have  gone  on  yarning  with  you." 

"Then  you  did  have  a  talk!  She  was  at  my  house 
to-night,  looking  quite  delicious.  You  know  she's  con- 
quered London." 

"That  sort's  up  to  every  move  on  the  board." 

"What  do  you  mean?    What  board?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  innocent  inquiry. 

"I  wish  men  didn't  know  so  much,"  she  added,  with 
a  sort  of  soft  vexation.  "You  have  so  many  opportuni- 
ties of  acquiring  knowledge  and  we  so  few — if  we  respect 
the  convenances." 

"Miss  Schley  wouldn't  respect  'em." 

He  chuckled,  and  again  drew  up  and  then  stretched 
out  his  legs,  slowly  and  luxuriously. 

"How  can  you  know?" 

"She's  not  the  sort  that  does.  She's  the  sort  that's 
always  kicking  over  the  traces  and  keeping  it  dark.  I 
know  'em." 

"I  think  you're  rather  unkind.  Miss  Schley's  mother 
arrives  to-morrow." 

Leo  Ulford  put  up  his  hands  to  his  baby  moustache 
and  shook  with  laughter. 

"That's  the  only  thing  she  wanted  to  set  her  up  in 
business,"  he  ejaculated.  "A  marmar.  I  do  love  those 
Americans!" 

"But  you  speak  as  if  Mrs  Schley  were  a  stage  prop- 
erty!" 

"I'll  bet  she  is.  Wait  till  you  see  her.  Why,  it's  a 
regular  profession  in  the  States,  being  a  marmar.  I  tell 
you  what — " 

He  leaned  forward  and  fixed  his  blue  eyes  on  Lady 
Holme,  with  an  air  of  profound  acuteness. 

"Are  you  going  to  see  her?" 

"Mrs  Schley?    I  daresay." 

"Well,  you  remember  what  I  tell  you.     She'll  be  as 

122 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

dry  as  a  dog-biscuit,  wear  a  cap  and  spectacles  with 
gold  rims,  and  say  nothing  but  'Oh,  my,  yes  indeed!'  to 
everything  that's  said  to  her.  Does  she  come  from 
Susanville?" 

"How  extraordinary!    I  believe  she  does." 

Leo  Ulford's  laugh  was  triumphant  and  prolonged. 

"That's  where  they  breed  marmars!"  he  exclaimed, 
when  he  was  able  to  speak.    "Women  are  stunning." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Lady 
Holme,  preserving  a  quiet  air  of  pupilage.  "But  perhaps 
it's  better  I  shouldn't.  Anyhow,  I  am  quite  sure  Miss 
Schley's  mother  will  be  worthy  of  her  daughter." 

"You  may  bet  your  bottom  dollar  on  that.  She'll 
be  what  they  call  'a  sootable  marmar.'  I  must  get  my 
wife  to  shoot  a  card  on  her." 

"I  hope  you'll  introduce  me  to  Mrs  Ulford.  I  should 
like  to  know  her." 

"Yours  isn't  the  voice  to  talk  down  a  trumpet,"  said 
Leo  Ulford,  with  a  sudden  air  of  surliness. 

"I  should  like  to  know  her  now  I  know  you  and  your 
father." 

At  the  mention  of  his  father  Leo  Ulford's  discontented 
expression  increased. 

"My  father's  a  rotter,"  he  said.  "Never  cared  for 
anything.  No  shot  to  speak  of.  He  can  sit  on  a  horse 
all  right.  Had  to,  in  South  America  and  Morocco  and 
all  those  places.  But  he  never  really  cared  about  it,  I 
don't  believe.  Why,  he'd  rather  look  at  a  picture  than  a 
thoroughbred  any  day!" 

At  this  moment  Sir  Donald  wandered  into  the  room, 
with  his  hands  behind  his  thin  back,  and  his  eyes  search- 
ing the  walls.  The  Duke  possessed  a  splendid  collection 
of  pictures. 

"There  he  is!"  said  Leo,  gruffly. 

"He  doesn't  see  us.    Go  and  tell  him  I'm  here." 
123 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Why  ?    He  might  go  out  again  if  we  keep  mum." 

"But  I  want  to  speak  to  him.  Sir  Donald!  Sir 
Donald!" 

Sir  Donald  turned  round  at  the  second  summons  and 
came  towards  them,  looking  rather  embarrassed. 

"Hulloa,  pater!"  said  Leo. 

Sir  Donald  nodded  to  his  son  with  a  conscientious 
effort  to  seem  familiar  and  genial. 

"Hulloa!"  he  rejoined  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"Your  boy  has  been  instructing  me  in  American  mys- 
teries," said  Lady  Holme.  "Do  take  me  to  the  ballroom, 
Sir  Donald." 

Leo  Ulford's  good  humour  returned  as  abruptly  as 
it  had  departed.  Her  glance  at  him,  as  she  spoke,  had 
seemed  to  hint  at  a  secret  understanding  between  them 
in  which  no  one — certainly  not  his  father — was  included. 

"Pater  can  tell  you  all  about  the  pictures,"  he  said, 
with  a  comfortable  assurance,  which  he  did  not  strive  to 
disguise,  that  she  would  be  supremely  bored. 

He  stared  at  her  hard,  gave  a  short  laugh,  and  lounged 
away. 

When  he  had  gone  Sir  Donald  still  seemed  embar- 
rassed. He  looked  at  Lady  Holme  apologetically,  and 
in  his  faded  eyes  she  saw  an  expression  that  reminded  her 
of  Lady  Cardington.  It  was  surely  old  age  asking  for- 
giveness for  its  existence. 

She  did  not  feel  much  pity  for  it,  but  with  the  woman 
of  the  world's  natural  instinct  to  smooth  rough  places — 
especially  for  a  man — she  began  to  devote  herself  to 
cheering  Sir  Donald  up,  as  they  slowly  made  their  way 
through  room  after  room  towards  the  distant  sound  of 
the  music. 

"I  hear  you've  been  plunging!"  she  began  gaily. 

Sir  Donald  looked  vague. 

"I'm  afraid  I  scarcely — " 

124 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Forgive  me.  I  catch  slang  from  my  husband.  He's 
ruining  my  EngHsh.  I  mean  that  I  hear  you've  been 
investing — shall  I  say  your  romance? — in  a  wonderful 
place  abroad^  with  a  fascinating  name.  I  hope  you'll  get 
enormous  interest." 

A  faint  colour,  it  was  like  the  ghost  of  a  blush,  rose 
in  Sir  Donald's  withered  cheeks. 

"Ah,  Mr  Carey—" 

He  checked  himself  abruptly,  remembering  what  he 
had  heard  from  Robin  Pierce. 

"No,  Mr  Pierce  was  my  informant.  He  knows  your 
place  and  says  it's  too  wonderful.    I  adore  the  name." 

"Casa  Felice.  You  would  not  advise  me  to  change 
it  then?" 

"Change  it!    Why?" 

"Well,  I — one  should  not,  perhaps,  insist  beforehand 
that  one  is  going  to  have  happiness,  which  must  always 
lie  on  the  knees  of  the  gods." 

"Oh,  I  believe  in  defiance." 

There  was  an  audacious  sound  in  her  voice.  Her  long 
talk  with  Leo  Ulford  had  given  her  back  her  belief  in 
herself,  her  confidence  in  her  beauty,  her  reliance  on  her 
youth. 

"You  have  a  right  to  believe  in  it.  But  Casa  Felice 
is  mine." 

"Even  to  buy  it  was  a  defiance — in  a  way." 

"Perhaps  so.    But  then—" 

"But  then  you  have  set  out  and  you  must  not  turn 
back,  Sir  Donald.  Baptise  your  wonderful  house  your- 
self by  filling  it  with  happiness.  Another  gave  it  its 
name.    Give  it  yourself  the  reason  for  the  name." 

Happiness  seemed  to  shine  suddenly  in  the  sound  of 
her  speaking  voice,  as  it  shone  in  her  singing  voice  when 
the  theme  of  her  song  was  joy.  Sir  Donald's  manner 
lost  its  self-consciousness,  its  furtive  diffidence. 

125 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"You — you  come  and  give  my  house  its  real  baptism," 
he  said,  with  a  flash  of  ardour  that,  issuing  from  him, 
was  Hke  fire  bursting  out  of  a  dreary  marsh  land.  "Will 
you?    This  August?" 

"But,"  she  hesitated,  "isn't  Mr  Carey  coming?" 

At  this  moment  they  came  into  a  big  drawing-room 
that  immediately  preceded  the  ballroom,  with  which  it 
communicated  by  an  immense  doorway  hung  with  cur- 
tains of  white  velvet.  They  could  see  in  the  distance  the 
dancers  moving  rather  indifferently  in  a  lancers.  Lord 
Holme  and  Miss  Schley  were  dancing  in  the  set  nearest 
to  the  doorway,  and  on  the  side  that  faced  the  drawing- 
room.  Directly  Lady  Holme  saw  the  ballroom  she  saw 
them.  A  sudden  sense  of  revolt,  the  defiance  of  joy 
carried  on  into  the  defiance  of  anger,  rose  up  in  her. 

"If  Mr  Carey  is  coming  I'll  come  too,  and  baptise 
your  house,"  she  said. 

Sir  Donald  looked  surprised,  but  he  answered,  with  a 
swiftness  that  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  old  age, — 

"That  is  a  bargain.  Lady  Holme.  I  regard  that  as  a 
bargain." 

"I'll  not  go  back  on  it." 

There  was  a  hard  sound  in  her  voice. 

They  entered  the  ballroom  just  as  the  band  played 
the  closing  bars  of  the  lancers,  and  the  many  sets  began 
to  break  up  and  melt  into  a  formless  crowd  which  dis- 
persed in  various  directions.  The  largest  number  of 
people  moved  towards  the  archway  near  which  the  Duke 
was  still  sitting,  bravely  exerting  himself  to  be  cheerful. 
Lady  Holme  and  Sir  Donald  became  involved  in  this 
section  of  the  crowd,  and  naturally  followed  in  its  direc- 
tion. Lord  Holme  and  Miss  Schley  were  at  a  short  dis- 
tance behind  them,  and  Lady  Holme  was  aware  of  this. 
The  double  defiance  was  still  alive  in  her,  and  was 
strengthened  by  a  clear  sound  which  reached  her  ears 

126 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

for  a  moment,  then  was  swallowed  up  by  the  hum  of 
conversation  from  many  intervening  voices — the  sound 
of  the  American's  drawling  tones  raised  to  say  something 
she  could  not  catch.  As  she  came  out  into  the  hall,  close 
to  the  Duke's  chair,  she  saw  Rupert  Carey  trying  to 
make  his  way  into  the  ballroom  against  the  stream  of 
dancers.  His  face  was  flushed.  There  were  drops  of 
perspiration  on  his  forehead,  and  the  violent  expression 
that  was  perpetually  visible  in  his  red-brown  eyes,  light- 
ing them  up  as  with  a  flame,  seemed  partially  obscured 
as  if  by  a  haze.  The  violence  of  them  was  no  longer 
vivid  but  glassy. 

Lady  Holme  did  not  notice  all  this.  The  crowd  was 
round  her,  and  she  was  secretly  preoccupied.  She  merely 
saw  that  Rupert  Carey  was  close  to  her,  and  she  knew 
who  was  following  behind  her.  A  strong  impulse  came 
upon  her  and  she  yielded  to  it  without  hesitation.  As 
she  reached  Rupert  Carey  she  stopped  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

"Mr  Carey,"  she  said,  "I've  been  wanting  to  speak 
to  you  all  the  evening.  Why  didn't  you  ask  me  to 
dance  ?" 

She  spoke  very  distinctly.  Carey  stood  still  and  stared 
at  her,  and  now  she  noticed  the  flush  on  his  face  and 
the  unnatural  expression  in  his  eyes.  She  understood 
at  once  what  was  the  matter  and  repented  of  her  action. 
But  it  was  too  late  to  draw  back.  Carey  stared  dully 
for  an  instant,  as  if  he  scarcely  knew  who  she  was. 
Then,  with  a  lurch,  he  came  closer  to  her,  and,  with  a 
wavering  movement,  tried  to  find  her  hand,  which  she 
had  withdrawn. 

"Where  is  it?"  he  muttered  in  a  thick  voice.  "Where 
is  it?" 

He  groped  frantically. 

"Sir  Donald!"  Lady  Holme  whispered  sharply,  while 
127 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

the  people  nearest  to  them  began  to  exchange  glances 
of  surprise  or  of  amusement. 

She  pressed  his  arm  and  he  tried  to  draw  her  on. 
But  Carey  was  exactly  in  front  of  her.  It  was  impossible 
for  her  to  escape.  He  found  her  hand  at  last,  took  it 
limply  in  his,  bent  down  and  began  to  kiss  it,  mumbling 
some  loud  but  incoherent  words. 

The  Duke  who,  from  his  chair,  was  a  witness  of  the 
scene,  tried  to  raise  himself  up,  and  a  vivid  spot  of 
scarlet  burned  in  his  almost  transparent  cheeks.  His 
daughter  hastened  forward  to  stop  his  efifort.  Lady 
Holme  dragged  her  hand  away  violently,  and  Carey  sud- 
denly burst  into  tears.  Sir  Donald  hurried  Lady  Holme 
on,  and  Carey  tried  to  follow,  but  was  forcibly  prevented 
by  two  men. 

When  at  length  Lady  Holme  found  herself  at  the 
other  end  of  the  great  hall,  she  turned  and  saw  her 
husband  coming  towards  her  with  a  look  of  fury  on  his 
face. 

"I  wish  to  go  home,"  she  said  to  him  in  a  low  voice. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  from  Sir  Donald's  arm  and 
quietly  bade  him  good-bye.  Lord  Holme  did  not  say  a 
word. 

"Where  is  the  Duchess?"  Lady  Holme  added.  "Ah, 
there  she  is!" 

She  saw  the  Duchess  hurriedly  going  towards  the 
place  where  the  Duke  was  sitting,  intercepted  her  swiftly, 
and  bade  her  good-night. 

"Now,  Fritz!"  she  said. 

She  was  conscious  that  a  number  of  people  was  watch- 
ing her,  and  her  voice  and  manner  were  absolutely 
unembarrassed.  A  footman  took  the  number  of  her 
cloak  from  Lord  Holme  and  fetched  the  cloak.  A  voice 
cried  in  the  distance,  "Lord  Holme's  carriage!"  An- 
other, and  nearer  voice,  echoed  the  call.     She  passed 

128 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

slowly  between  two  lines  of  men  over  a  broad  strip  of 
carpet  to  the  portico,  and  stepped  into  the  brougham. 

As  it  glided  away  into  the  night  she  heard  her  hus- 
band's loud  breathing. 

He  did  not  speak  for  two  or  three  minutes,  but 
breathed  like  a  man  who  had  been  running,  and  moved 
violently  in  the  carriage,  as  if  to  keep  still  were  intoler- 
able to  him.  The  window  next  to  him  was  up.  He  let 
it  down.  Then  he  turned  right  round  to  his  wife,  who 
was  leaning  back  in  her  corner  wrapped  up  in  her  black 
cloak. 

"With  the  Duke  sittin'  there!"  he  said  in  a  loud  voice. 
"With  the  Duke  sittin'  there!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  outrage  in  the  voice. 

"Didn't  I  kick  that  sweep  out  of  the  house?"  he  added. 
"Didn't  I?" 

"I  believe  you  asked  Mr  Carey  not  to  call  any  more." 

Lady  Holme's  voice  had  no  excitement  in  it. 

"Asked  him!    I—" 

"Don't  make  such  a  noise,  Fritz.  The  men  will  hear 
you." 

"I  told  him  if  he  ever  came  again  I'd  have  him  put 
out." 

"Well,  he  never  has  come  again." 

"What  d'you  mean  by  speakin'  to  him?  What  d'you 
mean  by  it?" 

Lady  Holme  knew  that  her  husband  was  a  thor- 
oughly conventional  man,  and,  like  all  conventional  men, 
had  a  horror  of  a  public  scene  in  which  any  woman  be- 
longing to  him  was  mixed  up.  Such  a  scene  alone  was 
quite  enough  to  rouse  his  wrath.  But  there  was  in  his 
present  anger  something  deeper,  more  brutal,  than  any 
rage  caused  by  a  breach  of  the  conventions.  His  jeal- 
ousy was  stirred. 

"He  didn't  speak  to  you.    You  spoke  to  him." 
129 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Lady  Holme  did  not  deny  it. 

"I  heard  every  word  you  said,"  continued  Lord  Holme, 
beginning  to  breathe  hard  again.    "I — I — " 

Lady  Holme  felt  that  he  was  longing  to  strike  her, 
that  if  he  had  been  the  same  man,  but  a  collier  or  a 
labourer,  born  in  another  class  of  life,  he  would  not  have 
hesitated  to  beat  her.  The  tradition  in  which  he  had 
been  brought  up  controlled  him.  But  she  knew  that  if 
he  could  have  beaten  her  he  would  have  hated  her  less, 
that  his  sense  of  bitter  wrong  would  have  at  once  dimin- 
ished. In  self-control  it  grew.  The  spark  rose  to  a 
flame. 

"You're  a  damned  shameful  woman!"  he  said. 

The  brougham  drew  up  softly  before  their  house. 
Lord  Holme,  who  was  seated  on  the  side  next  the  house, 
got  out  first.  He  did  not  wait  on  the  pavem.ent  to  assist 
his  wife,  but  walked  up  the  steps,  opened  the  door,  and 
went  into  the  hall.  Lady  Holme  followed.  She  saw 
her  husband,  with  the  light  behind  him,  standing  with 
his  hand  on  the  handle  of  the  hall  door.  For  an  instant 
she  thought  that  he  was  going  to  shut  her  out.  He 
actually  pushed  the  door  till  the  light  was  almost  hidden. 
Then  he  flung  it  open  with  a  bang,  threw  down  his  hat 
and  strode  upstairs. 

If  he  had  shut  her  out!  She  found  herself  wonder- 
ing what  would  have  become  of  her,  where  she  would 
have  gone.  She  would  have  had  to  go  to  the  Coburg, 
or  to  Claridge's,  without  a  maid,  without  luggage.  As 
she  slowly  came  upstairs  she  heard  her  husband  go  into 
the  drawing-room.  Was  he  waiting  for  her  there?  or 
did  he  wish  to  avoid  her?  When  she  reached  the  broad 
landing  she  hesitated.  She  was  half  inclined  to  go  in 
audaciously,  to  laugh  in  his  face,  turn  his  fury  into 
ridicule,  tell  him  she  was  the  sort  of  woman  who  is  born 
to  do  as  she  likes,  to  live  as  she  chooses,  to  think  of 

130 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

nothing  but  her  own  will,  consult  nothing  but  her  whims 
of  the  moment.  But  she  went  on  and  into  her  own  bed- 
room. 

Josephine  was  there  and  began  to  take  the  diamonds 
out  of  her  hair.  Lady  Holme  did  not  say  a  word.  She 
was  listening  intently  for  the  sound  of  any  movement 
below.  She  heard  nothing.  When  she  was  undressed, 
and  there  was  nothing  more  for  the  maid  to  do,  she 
began  to  feel  uneasy,  as  if  she  would  rather  not  dismiss 
the  girl.  But  it  was  very  late.  Josephine  strangled  her 
yawns  with  difficulty.  There  was  no  excuse  for  keeping 
her  up  any  longer. 

"You  can  go." 

The  maid  went  out,  leaving  Lady  Holme  standings 
in  the  middle  of  the  big  bedroom.  Next  to  it  on  one 
side  was  Lord  Holme's  dressing-room.  On  the  other 
side  there  was  a  door  leading  into  Lady  Holme's  boudoir. 
Almost  directly  after  Josephine  had  gone  Lady  Holme 
heard  the  outer  door  of  this  room  opened,  and  the  heavy 
step  of  her  husband.  It  moved  about  the  room,  stopped, 
moved  about  again.  What  could  he  be  doing?  She 
stood  where  she  was,  listening.  Suddenly  the  door  be- 
tween the  rooms  was  thrown  open  and  Lord  Holme  ap- 
peared. 

"Where's  the  red  book?"  he  said. 

"The  red  book!" 

"Where  is  it?    D'you  hear?" 

"What  do  you  want  it  for?" 

"That  sweep's  address." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?    Write  to  him?" 

"Write  to  him!"  said  Lord  Holme,  with  bitter  con- 
tempt.   "I'm  goin'  to  thrash  him.    Where  is  it?" 

"You  are  going  now?" 

"I've  not  come  up  to  answer  questions.  I've  come  for 
the  red  book.    Where  is  it?" 

131 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

"The  little  drawer  at  the  top  on  the  right  hand  of  the 
writing-table." 

Lord  Holme  turned  back  into  the  boudoir,  went  to 
the  writing-table,  found  the  book,  opened  it,  found  the 
address  and  wrote  it  down  on  a  bit  of  paper.  He 
folded  the  paper  up  anyhow  and  thrust  it  into  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  Then,  without  saying  another  word 
to  his  wife,  or  looking  at  her,  he  went  out  and  down 
the  staircase. 

She  followed  him  on  to  the  landing,  and  stood  there 
till  she  heard  the  hall  door  shut  with  a  bang. 

A  clock  below  struck  four.  She  went  back  into  the 
bedroom  and  sank  into  an  armchair. 

A  slight  sense  of  confusion  floated  over  her  mind  for 
a  moment,  like  a  cloud.  She  was  not  accustomed  to 
scenes.  There  had  been  one  certainly  when  Rupert 
Carey  was  forbidden  to  come  to  the  house  any  more, 
but  it  had  been  brief,  and  she  had  not  been  present  at  it. 
She  had  only  heard  of  it  afterwards.  Lord  Holme  had 
been  angry  then,  and  she  had  rather  liked  his  anger. 
She  took  it  as,  in  some  degree,  a  measure  of  his  attach- 
ment to  her.  And  then  she  had  had  no  feeling  of  being 
in  the  wrong  or  of  humiliation.  She  had  been  charming 
to  Carey,  as  she  was  charming  to  all  men.  He  had  lost 
his  head.  He  had  mistaken  the  relations  existing  be- 
tween her  and  her  husband,  and  imagined  that  such  a 
woman  as  she  was  must  be  unhappily  mated  with  such  a 
man  as  Lord  Holme.  The  passionate  desire  to  console  a 
perfectly-contented  woman  had  caused  him  to  go  too  far, 
and  bring  down  upon  himself  a  fiat  of  exile,  which  he 
could  not  defy  since  Lady  Holme  permitted  it  to  go  forth, 
and  evidently  was  not  rendered  miserable  by  it.  So  the 
acquaintance  with  Rupert  Carey  had  ceased,  and  life  had 
slipped  along  once  more  on  wheels  covered  with  india- 
rubber  tires. 

132 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

And  now  she  had  renewed  the  acquaintance  publicly 
and  with  disastrous  results. 

As  she  sat  there  she  began  to  wonder  at  herself,  at 
the  strength  of  her  temper,  the  secret  violence  of  her 
nature.  She  had  yielded  like  a  child  to  a  sudden  impulse. 
She  had  not  thought  of  consequences.  She  had  ignored 
her  worldly  knowledge.  She  had  considered  nothing, 
but  had  acted  abruptly,  as  any  ignorant,  uneducated 
woman  might  have  acted.  She  had  been  the  slave  of  a 
mood.  Or  had  she  been  the  slave  of  another  woman — 
of  a  woman  whom  she  despised? 

Miss  Schley  had  certainly  been  the  cause  of  the  whole 
afTair.  Lady  Holme  had  spoken  to  Rupert  Carey  merely 
because  she  knew  that  her  husband  was  immediately 
behind  her  with  the  American.  There  had  been  within 
her  at  that  moment  something  of  a  broad,  comprehen- 
sive feeling,  mingled  with  the  more  limited  personal  feel- 
ing of  anger  against  another  woman's  successful  im- 
pertinence, a  sentiment  of  revolt  in  which  womanhood 
seemed  to  rise  up  against  the  selfish  tyrannies  of  men. 
As  she  had  walked  in  the  crowd,  and  heard  for  an  instant 
Miss  Schley's  drawling  voice  speaking  to  her  husband, 
she  had  felt  as  if  the  forbidding  of  the  acquaintance 
between  herself  and  Rupert  Carey  had  been  an  act  of 
tyranny,  as  if  the  acquaintance  between  Miss  Schley  and 
her  husband  were  a  worse  act  of  tyranny.  The  feeling 
was  wholly  unreasonable,  of  course.  How  could  Lord 
Holme  know  that  she  wished  to  impose  a  veto,  even  as 
he  had?  And  what  reason  was  there  for  such  a  veto? 
That  lay  deep  down  within  her  as  woman's  instinct.  No 
man  could  have  understood  it. 

And  now  Lord  Holme  had  gone  out  in  the  dead  of 
the  night  to  thrash  Carey. 

She  began  to  think  about  Carey. 

How  disgusting  he  had  been.    A  drunken  man  must 

133 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

be  one  of  two  things — either  terrible  or  absurd.  Carey- 
had  been  absurd — disgusting  and  absurd.  It  had  been 
better  for  him  if  he  had  been  terrible.  But  mumblings 
and  tears!  She  remembered  what  she  had  said  of  Carey 
to  Robin  Pierce — that  something  in  his  eyes,  one  of 
those  expressions  which  are  the  children  of  the  eyes, 
or  of  the  lines  about  the  eyes,  told  her  that  he  was 
capable  of  doing  something  great.  What  an  irony  that 
her  remark  to  Robin  had  been  succeeded  by  such  a 
scene!  And  she  heard  again  the  ugly  sound  of  Carey's 
incoherent  exclamations,  and  felt  again  the  limp  clasp  of 
his  hot,  weak  hand,  and  saw  again  the  tears  running 
over  his  flushed,  damp  face.  It  was  all  very  nauseous. 
And  yet — had  she  been  wrong  in  what  she  had  said  of 
him?  Did  she  even  think  that  she  had  been  wrong  now, 
after  what  had  passed? 

What  kind  of  great  action  had  she  thought  he  would 
be  capable  of  if  a  chance  to  do  something  great  were 
thrown  in  his  way?  She  said  to  herself  that  she  had 
spoken  at  random,  as  one  perpetually  speaks  in  Society. 
And  then  she  remembered  Carey's  eyes.  They  were  ugly 
eyes.  She  had  always  thought  them  ugly.  Yet,  now  and 
then,  there  was  something  in  them,  something  to  hold  a 
woman — no,  perhaps  not  that — but  something  to  startle 
a  woman,  to  make  her  think,  wonder,  even  to  make  her 
trust.  And  the  scene  which  had  just  occurred,  with  all 
its  weakness,  its  fatuity,  its  maundering  display  of  degra- 
dation and  the  inability  of  any  self-government,  had  not 
somehow  destroyed  the  impression  made  upon  Lady 
Holme  by  that  something  in  Carey's  eyes.  What  she 
had  said  to  Robin  Pierce  she  might  not  choose  ever  to 
say  again.  She  would  not  choose  ever  to  say  it  again — 
of  that  she  was  certain — but  she  had  not  ceased  to  think 
it. 

A  conviction  based  upon  no  evidence  that  could  be 

134 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

brought  forward  to  convince  anyone  is  the  last  thing 
that  can  be  destroyed  in  a  woman's  heart. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  when  Lady  Holme  heard 
a  step  coming  up  the  stairs.  She  was  still  sitting  in  the 
deep  chair,  and  had  scarcely  moved.  The  step  startled 
her.  She  put  her  hands  on  the  arms  of  the  chair  and 
leaned  forward.  The  step  passed  her  bedroom.  She 
heard  the  door  of  the  dressing-room  opened  and  then 
someone  moving  about. 

"Fritz!"  she  called.    "Fritz!" 

There  was  no  answer.  She  got  up  and  went  quickly 
to  the  dressing-room.  Her  husband  was  there  in  his 
shirt  sleeves.  His  evening  coat  and  waistcoat  were  lying 
half  on  a  chair,  half  on  the  floor,  and  he  was  in  the  act 
of  unfastening  his  collar.  She  looked  into  his  face,  trying 
to  read  it. 

"Well?"  she  said.    "Well?" 

"Go  to  bed!"  he  said  brutally. 

"What  have  you  done?" 

"That's  my  business.    Go  to  bed.    D'you  hear?" 

She  hesitated.    Then  she  said, — 

"How  dare  you  speak  to  me  like  that?  Have  you 
seen  Mr  Carey?" 

Lord  Holme  suddenly  took  his  wife  by  the  shoulders, 
pushed  her  out  of  the  room,  shut  the  door,  and  locked  it. 

They  always  slept  in  the  same  bedroom.  Was  he 
not  going  to  bed  at  all?  What  had  happened?  Lady 
Holme  could  not  tell  from  his  face  or  manner  anything 
of  what  had  occurred.  She  looked  at  her  clock  and 
saw  that  her  husband  had  been  out  of  the  house  for  two 
hours.  Indignation  and  curiosity  fought  within  her,  and 
she  became  conscious  of  an  excitement  such  as  she  had 
never  felt  before.  Sleep  was  impossible,  but  she  got 
into  bed  and  lay  there  listening  to  the  noises  made  by 
her  husband  in  his  dressing-room.    She  could  just  hear 

135 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

them  faintly  through  the  door.  Presently  they  ceased. 
A  profound  silence  reigned.  There  was  a  sofa  in  the 
dressing-room.  Could  he  be  trying  to  sleep  on  it?  Such 
a  thing  seemed  incredible  to  her.  For  Lord  Holme, 
although  he  could  rough  it  when  he  was  shooting  or 
hunting,  at  home  or  abroad,  and  cared  little  for  incon- 
venience when  there  was  anything  to  kill,  was  devoted 
to  comfort  in  ordinary  life,  and  extremely  exigent  in  his 
own  houses.  For  nothing,  for  nobody,  had  Lady  Holme 
ever  known  him  to  allow  himself  to  be  put  out. 

She  strained  her  ears  as  she  lay  in  bed.  For  a  long 
time  the  silence  lasted.  She  began  to  think  her  husband 
must  have  left  the  dressing-room,  when  she  heard  a 
noise  as  if  something — some  piece  of  furniture — had  been 
kicked,  and  then  a  stentorian  "Damn!" 

Suddenly  she  burst  out  laughing.  She  shook  against 
the  pillows.  She  laughed  and  laughed  weakly,  help- 
lessly, till  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  And  with 
those  tears  ran  away  her  anger,  the  hot,  strained  sensa- 
tion that  had  been  within  her  ever  since  the  scene  at 
Arkell  House.  If  she  had  womanly  pride  it  melted 
ignominiously.  If  she  had  feminine  dignity — that  pure 
and  sacred  panoply  which  man  ignores  at  his  own  proper 
peril — it  disappeared.  The  "poor  old  Fritz"  feeling, 
which  was  the  most  human,  simple,  happy  thing  in  her 
heart,  started  into  vivacity  as  she  realised  the  long  legs 
flowing  into  air  over  the  edge  of  the  short  sofa,  the  pent- 
up  fury — fury  of  the  too  large  body  on  the  too  small 
resting-place — which  found  a  partial  vent  in  the  hallowed 
objurgation  of  the  British  Philistine. 

With  every  moment  that  she  lay  in  the  big  bed  she 
was  punishing  Fritz.  She  nestled  down  among  the  pil- 
lows. She  stretched  out  her  limbs  luxuriously.  How 
easy  it  was  to  punish  a  man!  Lying  there  she  recalled 
her  husband's  words,  each  detail  of  his  treatment  of  her 

136 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

since  she  had  spoken  to  Carey.  He  had  called  her  "a 
damned  shameful  woman."  That  was  of  all  the  worst 
offence.  She  told  herself  that  she  ought  to,  that  she 
must,  for  that  expression  alone,  hate  Fritz  for  ever.  And 
then,  immediately,  she  knew  that  she  had  forgiven  it 
already,  without  effort,  without  thought. 

She  understood  the  type  with  which  she  had  to  deal, 
the  absurd  boyishness  that  was  linked  with  the  brutality 
of  it,  the  lack  of  mind  to  give  words  their  true,  their 
inmost  meaning.  Words  are  instruments  of  torture,  or 
the  pattering  confetti  of  a  carnival,  not  by  themselves  but 
by  the  mind  that  sends  them  forth.  Fritz's  exclamation 
might  have  roused  eternal  enmity  in  her  if  it  had  been 
uttered  by  another  man.  Coming  from  Fritz  it  won  its 
pardon  easily  by  having  a  brother,  "Damn." 

She  wondered  how  long  her  husband  would  be  ruled 
by  his  sense  of  outrage. 

Towards  seven  she  heard  another  movement,  another 
indignant  exclamation,  then  the  creak  of  furniture,  a 
step,  a  rattling  at  the  door.  She  turned  on  her  side 
towards  the  wall,  shut  her  eyes  and  breathed  lightly 
and  regularly.  The  key  revolved,  the  door  opened  and 
closed,  and  she  heard  feet  shuffling  cautiously  over  the 
carpet.  A  moment  and  Fritz  was  in  bed.  Another 
moment,  a  long  sigh,  and  he  was  asleep. 

Lady  Holme  still  lay  awake.  Now  that  her  attention 
was  no  longer  fixed  upon  her  husband's  immediate  pro- 
ceedings she  began  to  wonder  again  what  had  happened 
between  him  and  Rupert  Carey.  She  would  find  out 
in  the  morning. 

And  presently  she.  too,  slept. 


137 


IN  the  morning  Lord  Holme  woke  very  late  and  in 
a  different  humour.  Lady  Holme  was  already  up, 
sitting  by  a  little  table  and  pouring  out  tea,  when  he 
stretched  himself,  yawned,  turned  over,  uttered  two  or 
three  booming,  incoherent  exclamations,  and  finally 
raised  himself  on  one  arm,  exhibiting  a  tousled  head 
and  a  pair  of  blinking  eyes,  stared  solemnly  at  his  wife's 
white  figure  and  at  the  tea-table,  and  ejaculated, — 

"Eh?" 

"Tea?"  she  returned,  lifting  up  the  silver  teapot  and 
holding  it  towards  him  with  an  encouraging,  half-playful 
gesture. 

Lord  Holme  yawned  again,  put  up  his  hands  to  his 
hair,  and  then  looked  steadily  at  the  teapot,  which  his 
wife  was  moving  about  in  the  sunbeams  that  were  shining 
in  at  the  window.    The  morning  was  fine. 

"Tea,  Fritz?" 

He  smiled  and  began  to  roll  out  of  bed.  But  the  action 
woke  up  his  memory,  and  when  he  was  on  his  feet  he 
looked  at  his  wife  again  more  doubtfully.  She  saw  that 
he  was  beginning,  sleepily  but  definitely,  to  consider 
whether  he  should  go  on  being  absolutely  furious  about 
the  events  of  the  preceding  night,  and  acted  with  prompt- 
itude. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  she  said  quickly.  "I've  made 
up  my  mind  to  forgive  you.  You're  only  a  great  school- 
boy after  all.    Come  along." 

She  began  to  pour  out  the  tea.     It  made  a  pleasant 

138 


THE  WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

little  noise  falling  into  the  cup.  The  sun  was  wonder- 
fully bright  in  the  pretty  room,  almost  Italian  in  its 
golden  warmth.  Lady  Holme's  black  Pomeranian,  Pixie, 
stood  on  its  hind  legs  to  greet  him.  He  came  up  to  the 
sofa,  still  looking  undecided,  but  with  a  wavering  light  of 
dawning  satisfaction  in  his  eyes. 

"You  behaved  damned  badly  last  night,"  he  growled. 

He  sat  down  beside  his  wife  with  a  bump.  She  put  up 
her  hand  to  his  rough,  brown  cheek. 

"We  both  behaved  atrociously,"  she  answered. 
"There's  your  tea." 

She  poured  in  the  cream  and  buttered  a  thin  piece 
of  toast.  Lord  Holme  sipped.  As  he  put  the  cup  down 
she  held  the  piece  of  toast  up  to  his  mouth.  He  took  a 
bite. 

"And  we  both  do  the  Christian  act  and  forgive  each 
other,"  she  added. 

He  leaned  back.  Sleep  was  flowing  away  from  him, 
full  consciousness  of  life  and  events  returning  to  him. 

"What  made  you  speak  to  that  feller?"  he  said. 

"Drink  your  tea.  I  don't  know.  He  looked  miserable 
at  being  avoided,  and — " 

"Miserable!  He  was  drunk.  He's  done  for  himself 
in  London,  and  pretty  near  done  for  you  too." 

As  he  thought  about  it  all  a  cloud  began  to  settle  over 
his  face.    Lady  Holme  saw  it  and  said, — 

"That  depends  on  you,  Fritz." 

She  nestled  against  him,  put  her  hand  over  his,  and 
kept  on  lifting  his  hand  softly  and  then  letting  it  fall  on 
his  knee,  as  she  went  on, — 

"That  all  depends  on  you." 

"How?" 

He  began  to  look  at  her  hand  and  his,  following  their 
movements  almost  like  a  child. 

"If  we  are  all  right  together,  obviously  all  right,  very, 

139 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

very  par-ti-cu-lar-ly  all  right — voyez  vous,  mon  petit 
chou? — they  will  think  nothing  of  it.  'Poor  Mr  Carey! 
.What  a  pity  the  Duke's  champagne  is  so  good!'  That's 
what  they'll  say.  But  if  we — you  and  I — are  not  on  per- 
fect terms,  if  you  behave  like  a  bear  that's  been  sitting  on 
a  wasps'  nest — why  then  they'll  say — they'll  say — " 
'      "What'll  they  say?" 

"They'll  say,  'That  was  really  a  most  painful  scene 
at  the  Duke's.  She's  evidently  been  behaving  quite 
abominably.  Those  yellow  women  always  bring  about 
all  the  tragedies — '  " 

"Yellow  women!"  Lord  Holme  ejaculated. 

He  looked  hard  at  his  wife.  It  was  evident  that  his 
mind  was  tacking. 

"Miss  Schley  heard  what  you  said  to  the  feller,"  he 
added. 

"People  who  never  speak  hear  everything — naturally." 

"How  d'you  mean — never  speak?  Why,  she's  full  of 
talk." 

"How  well  she  listened  to  him!"  was  Lady  Holme's 
mental  comment. 

"If  half  the  world  heard  it  doesn't  matter  if  you  and 
I  choose  it  shouldn't.    Unless — " 

"Unless  what?" 

"Unless  you  did  anything  last  night — afterwards — 
that  will  make  a  scandal?" 

"Ah!" 

"Did  you?" 

"That's  all  right." 

He  applied  himself  with  energy  to  the  toast.  Lady 
Holme  recognised,  with  a  chagrin  which  she  concealed, 
that  Lord  Holme  was  not  going  to  allow  himself  to  be 
"managed"  into  any  revelation.  She  recognized  it  so 
thoroughly  that  she  left  the  subject  at  once. 

"We'd  better  forgive  and  forget,"  she  said.     "After 
140 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

all,  we  are  married  and  I  suppose  we  must  stick  to- 
gether." 

There  was  a  clever  note  of  regret  in  her  voice. 

"Are  you  sorry?"  Lord  Holme  said,  with  a  manner 
that  suggested  a  readiness  to  be  surly. 

"For  what?" 

"That  we're  married?" 

She  sat  calmly  considering. 

"Am  I?  Well,  I  must  think.  It's  so  difficult  to  be 
sure.    I  must  compare  you  with  other  men — " 

"If  it  comes  to  that,  I  might  do  a  bit  of  comparin' 
too." 

"I  should  be  the  last  to  prevent  you,  old  boy.  But 
I'm  sure  you've  often  done  it  already  and  always  made 
up  your  mind  afterwards  that  she  wasn't  quite  up  to  the 
marrying  mark." 

"Who  wasn't?" 

"The  other — horrid  creature." 

He  could  not  repress  a  chuckle. 

"You're  deuced  conceited,"  he  said. 

"You've  made  me  so." 

«I_how?" 

"By  marrying  me  first  and  adoring  me  afterwards." 

They  had  finished  tea  and  were  no  longer  preoccupied 
with  cups  and  saucers.  It  was  very  bright  in  the  room, 
very  silent.  Lord  Holme  looked  at  his  wife  and  remem- 
bered how  much  she  was  admired  by  other  men,  how 
many  men  would  give — whatever  men  are  ready  to  give 
— to  see  her  as  she  was  just  then.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  he  would  have  been  rather  a  fool  if  he  had  yielded 
to  his  violent  impulse  and  shut  her  out  of  the  house  the 
previous  night. 

"You're  never  to  speak  to  that  cad  again,"  he  said. 
"D'you  hear?" 

"Whisper  it  close  in  my  ear  and  I'll  try  to  hear.    Your 

141 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

voice    is     so — what's    your    expression — so    infernally 
soft." 

He  put  his  great  arm  round  her. 

"D'you  hear?" 

"I'm  trying." 

'Til  make  you." 

Whether  Lord  Holme  succeeded  or  not,  Lady  Holme 
had  no  opportunity — even  if  she  desired  it — of  speaking 
to  Rupert  Carey  for  some  time.  He  left  London  and 
went  up  to  the  North  to  stay  with  his  mother.  The  only 
person  he  saw  before  he  went  was  Robin  Pierce.  He 
came  round  to  Half  Moon  Street  early  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  day  after  the  Arkell  House  ball.  Robin  was  at 
home  and  Carey  walked  in  with  his  usual  decision.  He 
was  very  pale,  and  his  face  looked  very  hard.  Robin 
received  him  coldly  and  did  not  ask  him  to  sit  down. 
That  was  not  necessary,  of  course.  But  Robin  was 
standing  by  the  door  and  did  not  move  back  into  the 
room. 

"I'm  going  North  to-night,"  said  Carey. 

"Are  you?" 

"Yes.     If  you  don't  mind  I'll  sit  down." 

Robin  said  nothing.  Carey  threw  himself  into  an 
armchair. 

"Going  to  see  the  mater.  A  funny  thing — but  she's 
always  glad  to  see  me." 

"Why  not?" 

"Mothers  have  a  knack  that  way.  Lucky  for  sons 
like  me." 

There  was  intense  bitterness  in  his  voice,  but  there 
was  a  sound  of  tenderness,  too.  Robin  shut  the  door 
but  did  not  sit  down. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  in  the  country  long  ?" 

"Don't  know.  What  time  did  you  leave  Arkell  House 
last  night?" 

142 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Not  till  after  Lady  Holme  left." 

"Oh!" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  biting  his  red  moustache. 

"Were  you  in  the  hall  after  the  last  lancers?" 

"No." 

"You  weren't?" 

He  spoke  quickly,  with  a  sort  of  relief,  hesitated,  then 
added  sardonically, — 

"But  of  course  you  know — and  much  worse  than  the 
worst.  The  art  of  conversation  isn't  dead  yet,  whatever 
the — perhaps  you  saw  me  being  got  out?" 

"No,  I  didn't." 

"But  you  do  know  ?" 

"Naturally." 

"I  say,  I  wish  you'd  let  me  have — " 

He  checked  himself  abruptly,  and  muttered, — 

"Good  God!    What  a  brute  I  am!" 

He  sprang  up  and  walked  about  the  room.  Presently 
he  stopped  in  front  of  the  statuette  of  the  "Danseuse  de 
Tunisie." 

"Is  it  the  woman  that  does  it  all,  or  the  fan?"  he  said. 
"I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  one,  and  some- 
times the  other.  Without  the  fan  there's  purity,  what's 
meant  from  the  beginning — " 

"By  whom?"  said  Robin.  "I  thought  you  were  an 
atheist?" 

"Oh,  God!    I  don't  know  what  I  am." 

He  turned  away  from  the  statuette. 

"With  the  fan  there's  so  much  more  than  purity,  than 
what  was  meant  to  complete  us — us  devils — men.  But — 
mothers  don't  carry  the  fan.  And  I'm  going  North  to- 
night." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Lady  Holme — ?" 

Robin's  voice  was  stern. 

"Why  did  she  say  that  to  me  ?" 

143 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"That  she  wished  to  speak  to  me,  to  dance  with  me." 

"She  said  that?    How  can  you  know?" 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  so  drunk  that  I  couldn't  hear  the  voice 
from  Eden.  Pierce,  you  know  her.  She  Hkes  you.  Tell 
her  to  forgive  as  much  as  she  can.  Will  you?  And 
tell  her  not  to  carry  the  fan  again  when  fools  like  me  are 
about." 

And  then,  without  more  words,  he  went  out  of  the 
room  and  left  Robin  standing  alone. 

Robin  looked  at  the  statuette,  and  remembered  what 
Sir  Donald  Ulford  had  said  directly  he  saw  it — "Forgive 
me,  that  fan  makes  that  statuette  wicked." 

"Poor  old  Carey!"  he  murmured. 

His  indignation  at  Carey's  conduct,  which  had  been 
hot,  had  nearly  died  away. 

"If  I  had  told  him  what  she  said  about  him  at  supper!" 
he  thought. 

And  then  he  began  to  wonder  whether  Lady  Holme 
had  changed  her  mind  on  that  subject.  Surely  she  must 
have  changed  it.  But  one  never  knew — with  women. 
He  took  up  his  hat  and  gloves  and  went  out.  If  Lady 
Holme  was  in  he  meant  to  give  her  Carey's  message.  It 
was  impossible  to  be  jealous  of  Carey  now. 

Lady  Holme  was  not  in. 

As  Robin  walked  away  from  Cadogan  Square  he  was 
not  sure  whether  he  was  glad  or  sorry  that  he  had  not 
been  able  to  see  her. 

After  his  cup  of  early  morning  tea  Lord  Holme  had 
seemed  to  be  "dear  old  Fritz"  again,  and  Lady  Holme 
felt  satisfied  with  herself  despite  the  wagging  tongues 
of  London.  She  knew  she  had  done  an  incautious  thing. 
She  knew,  too,  that  Carey  had  failed  her.  Her  impulse 
had  been  to  use  him  as  a  weapon.  He  had  proved  a 
broken  reed.    And  this  failure  on  his  part  was  likely  to 

144 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

correct  for  ever  her  incautious  tendencies.  That  was 
what  she  told  herself,  with  some  contempt  for  men.  She 
did  not  tell  herself  that  the  use  to  which  she  had  in- 
tended to  put  Carey  was  an  unworthy  one.  Women  as 
beautiful,  and  as  successful  in  their  beauty  as  she  was, 
seldom  tell  themselves  these  medicinal  truths. 

She  went  about  as  usual,  and  on  several  occasions 
took  Lord  Holme  with  her.  And  though  she  saw  a  light 
of  curiosity  in  many  eyes,  and  saw  lips  almost  forced 
open  by  the  silent  questions  lurking  within  many  minds, 
it  was  as  she  had  said  it  would  be.  The  immediate 
future  had  been  in  Fritz's  hands,  and  he  had  made  it 
safe  enough. 

He  had  made  it  safe.  Even  the  Duchess  of  Arkell 
was  quite  charming,  and  laid  the  whole  burden  of  blame 
— where  it  always  ought  to  be  laid,  of  course — upon  the 
man's  shoulders.  Rupert  Carey  was  quite  done  for  so- 
cially. Everyone  said  so.  Even  Upper  Bohemia  thought 
blatant  intemperance — in  a  Duke's  house — an  unneces- 
sary defiance  flung  at  the  Blue  Ribbon  Army.  Only 
Amalia  Wolfstein,  who  had  never  succeeded  in  getting 
an  invitation  to  Arkell  House,  remarked  that  "It  was 
probably  the  champagne's  fault.  She  had  always  noticed 
that  where  the  host  and  hostess  were  dry  the  champagne 
was  apt  to  be  sweet." 

Yes,  Fritz  had  made  it  safe,  but — 

Circumstances  presently  woke  in  Lady  Holme's  mind 
a  rather  disagreeable  suspicion  that  though  Fritz  had 
"come  round"  with  such  admirable  promptitude  he  had 
reserved  to  himself  a  right  to  retaliate,  that  he  perhaps 
presumed  to  fancy  that  her  defiant  action,  and  its  very 
public  and  unpleasant  result,  gave  to  him  a  greater  license 
than  he  had  possessed  before. 

Some  days  after  the  early  morning  tea  Lord  Holme 
said  to  his  wife, — 

145 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"I  say,  Vi,  we've  got  nothing  on  the  first,  have  we  ?" 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause  before  she  replied, 

"Yes,  we  have.  We've  accepted  a  dinner  at  Brayley 
House." 

Lord  Holme  looked  exceedingly  put  out. 

"Brayley  House.  What  rot!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  hate 
those  hind-leg  affairs.  Why  on  earth  did  you  accept 
it?" 

"Dear  boy,  you  told  me  to.    But  why?" 

"Why  what?" 

"Why  are  you  so  anxious  to  be  free  for  the  first?" 

"Well,  it's  Miss  Schley's  debut  at  the  British.  Every- 
one's goin'  and  Laycock  says — " 

"I'm  not  very  interested  in  Mr  Laycock's  aphorisms, 
Fritz.    I  prefer  yours,  I  truly  do." 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  as  good  as  Laycock,  I  know.    Still — " 

"You're  a  thousand  times  better.  And  so  everybody's 
going  on  Miss  Schley's  first  night?  I  only  wish  we 
could,  but  we  can't.  Let's  put  up  with  number  two. 
We're  free  on  the  second." 

Lord  Holme  did  not  look  at  all  appeased. 

"That's  not  the  same  thing,"  he  said. 

"What's  the  difference?  She  doesn't  change  the  play, 
I  suppose?" 

"No.  But  naturally  on  the  first  night  she  wants  all 
her  friends  to  come  up  to  the  scratch,  muster  round — 
don't  you  know? — and  give  her  a  hand." 

"And  she  thinks  your  hand,  being  enormous,  would 
be  valuable?    But  we  can't  throw  over  Brayley  House." 

Lord  Holme's  square  jaw  began  to  work,  a  sure  sign 
of  acute  irritation. 

"If  there's  a  dull,  dreary  house  in  London,  it's  Brayley 
House,"  he  grumbled.  "The  cookin's  awful — poison — 
and  the  wine's  worse.  Why,  last  time  Laycock  was  there 
they  actually  gave  him — " 

146 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

"Poor  dear  Mr  Laycock!  Did  they  really  ?  But  what 
can  we  do?  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  be  poisoned  either. 
I  love  life." 

She  was  looking  brilliant.  Lord  Holme  began  to 
straddle  his  legs. 

"And  there's  the  box!"  he  said.  "A  box  next  the 
stage  that  holds  six  in  a  row  can't  stand  empty  on  a 
first  night,  eh?  It'd  throw  a  damper  on  the  whole 
house." 

'Tm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand.    What  box?" 

"Hang  it  all! — ours." 

"I  didn't  know  we  had  a  box  for  this  important  social 
function." 

Lady  Holme  really  made  a  great  effort  to  keep  the  ice 
out  of  her  voice,  but  one  or  two  fragments  floated  in 
nevertheless. 

"Well,  I  tell  you  I've  taken  a  box  and  asked  Lay- 
cock—" 

The  reiterated  mention  of  this  hallowed  name  was  a 
little  too  much  for  Lady  Holme's  equanimity. 

"If  Mr  Laycock's  going  the  box  won't  be  empty.  So 
that's  all  right,"  she  rejoined.  "Mr  Laycock  will  make 
enough  noise  to  give  the  critics  a  lead.  And  I  suppose 
that's  all  Miss  Schley  wants." 

"But  it  isn't!"  said  Lord  Holme,  violently  letting  him- 
self down  at  the  knees  and  shooting  himself  up  again. 

"What  does  she  want?" 

"She  wants  you  to  be  there." 

"Me!     Why?" 

"Because  she's  taken  a  deuce  of  a  fancy  to  you." 

"Really!" 

An  iceberg  had  entered  the  voice  now. 

"Yes,  thinks  you  the  smartest  woman  in  London,  and 
all  that.    So  you  are." 

"I'm  very   sorry,   but   even   the   smartest   woman   in 

147 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

London  can't  throw  over  the  Brayleys.  Take  another 
box  for  the  second," 

Lord  Holme  looked  fearfully  sulky  and  lounged  out  of 
the  room. 

On  the  following  morning  he  strode  into  Lady  Holme's 
boudoir  about  twelve  with  a  radiant  face. 

"It's  all  right!"  he  exclaimed.  "Talk  of  diplomatists! 
I  ought  to  be  an  ambassador." 

He  flung  himself  into  a  chair,  grinning  with  satisfac- 
tion like  a  schoolboy. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Lady  Holme,  looking  up  from 
her  writing-table. 

"I've  been  to  Lady  Brayley,  explained  the  whole  thing, 
and  got  us  both  ofif.  After  all,  she  was  a  friend  of  my 
mother's,  and  knew  me  in  kilts  and  all  that,  so  she  ought 
to  be  ready  to  do  me  a  favour.  She  looked  a  bit  grim, 
but  she's  done  it.  You've  only  got  to  tip  her  a  note  of 
thanks." 

"You're  mad  then,  Fritz!" 

Lady  Holme  stood  up  suddenly. 

"Never  saner." 

He  put  one  hand  into  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat 
and  pulled  out  an  envelope. 

"Here's  what  she  says  to  you." 

Lady  Holme  tore  the  note  open. 

"Brayley  House,  W. 
"Dear  Viola, — Holme  tells  me  you  made  a  mistake 
when  you  accepted  my  invitation  for  the  first,  and  that 
you  have  long  been  pledged  to  be  present  on  that  date 
at  some  theatrical  performance  or  other.  I  am  sorry 
I  did  not  know  sooner,  but  of  course  I  release  you  with 
pleasure  from  your  engagement  with  me,  and  I  have 
already  filled  up  your  places. — Believe  me,  yours  always 
sincerely,  Martha  Brayley." 

148 


THE    WOMAN    WITH    THE   FAN 

Lady  Holme  read  this  note  carefully,  folded  it  up,  laid 
it  quietly  on  the  writing-table  and  repeated, — 

"You're  mad,  Fritz." 

"What  d'you  mean — mad?" 

"You've  made  Martha  Brayley  my  enemy  for  life." 

"Rubbish!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon.    And  for — for — " 

She  stopped.  It  was  wiser  not  to  go  on.  Perhaps 
her  face  spoke  for  her,  even  to  so  dull  an  observer  as 
Lord  Holme,  for  he  suddenly  said,  with  a  complete 
change  of  tone,— 

"I  forgave  you  about  Carey." 

"Oh,  I  see!  You  want  a  quid  pro  quo.  Thank  you, 
Fritz." 

"Don't  forget  to  tip  Lady  Brayley  a  note  of  thanks," 
he  said  rather  loudly,  getting  up  from  his  chair. 

"Oh,  thanks!  You  certainly  ought  to  be  an  ambas- 
sador— at  the  court  of  some  savage  monarch." 

He  said  nothing,  but  walked  out  of  the  room  whistling 
the  refrain  about  Ina. 

When  he  had  gone  Lady  Holme  sat  down  and  wrote 
two  notes.  One  was  to  Lady  Brayley  and  was  charm- 
ingly apologetic,  saying  that  the  confusion  was  entirely 
owing  to  Fritz's  muddle-headedness,  and  that  she  was 
in  despair  at  her  misfortune — which  was  almost  literally 
true.  The  other  was  to  Sir  Donald  Ulford,  begging  him 
to  join  them  in  their  box  on  the  first,  and  asking  whether 
it  was  possible  to  persuade  Mr  and  Mrs  Leo  Ulford 
to  come  with  him.  If  he  thought  so  she  would  go  at  once 
and  leave  cards  on  Mrs  Ulford,  whom  she  was  longing 
to  know. 

Both  notes  went  ofif  by  hand  before  lunch. 


149 


X 

THE  Ulfords  accepted  for  the  first.  Lady  Holme 
left  cards  on  Mrs  Leo  and  told  her  husband 
that  the  box  was  filled  up.  He  received  the  in- 
formation with  indifference.  So  long  as  his  wife  was 
there  to  please  Miss  Schley,  and  Mr  Laycock  to  "give 
her  a  hand  and  show  'em  all  whether  she  was  popular," 
he  was  satisfied.  Having  gained  his  point,  he  was  once 
again  in  excellent  humour.  Possibly  Lady  Holme  would 
have  appreciated  his  large  gaieties  more  if  she  had  not 
divined  their  cause.  But  she  expressed  no  dissatisfac- 
tion with  them,  and  indeed  increased  them  by  her  own 
brilliant  serenity  during  the  days  that  intervened  between 
the  Martha  Brayley  incident  and  the  first  night. 

Lord  Holme  had  no  suspicion  that  during  these  days 
she  was  inwardly  debating  whether  she  would  go  to  the 
theatre  or  not. 

It  would  be  very  easy  to  be  unwell.  She  was  going 
out  incessantly  and  could  be  over-fatigued.  She  could 
have  woman's  great  stand-by  in  moments  of  crisis — a  bad 
attack  of  neuralgia.  It  was  the  simplest  matter  in  the 
world.  The  only  question  was — All  things  considered 
was  it  worth  while?  By  "all  things  considered"  she 
meant  Leo  Ulford.  The  touch  of  Fritz  in  him  made 
him  a  valuable  ally  at  this  moment.  Fritz  and  Miss 
Schley  were  not  going  to  have  things  quite  all  their 
own  way.  And  then  Mrs  Leo!  She  would  put  Fritz 
next  the  ear-trumpet.  She  had  enough  sense  of  humour 
to  smile  to  herself  at  the  thought  of  him  there.    On  the 

150 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

whole,  she  fancied  the  neuralgia  would  not  attack  her  at 
the  critical  instant. 

Only  when  she  thought  of  what  her  husband  had  said 
about  the  American's  desire  for  her  presence  did  she 
hesitate  again.  Her  suspicions  were  aroused.  Miss 
Schley  was  not  anxious  that  she  should  be  conspicuously 
in  the  theatre  merely  because  she  was  the  smartest 
woman  in  London.  That  was  certain.  Besides,  she  was 
not  the  smartest  woman  in  London.  She  was  far  too 
well-born  to  be  that  in  these  great  days  of  the  demi- 
mondaine.  He  remembered  Robin  Pierce's  warning  at 
the  Arkell  House  ball — "Consider  yourselves  enemies 
for  no  reasons  or  secret  woman's  reasons.    It's  safer." 

When  do  women  want  the  bulky,  solid  reasons  obtusely 
demanded  by  men  before  they  can  be  enemies?  Where 
man  insists  on  an  insult,  a  blow,  they  will  be  satisfied 
with  a  look — perhaps  not  even  at  them,  but  only  at  the 
skirt  of  their  gown — with  a  turn  of  the  head,  with  noth- 
ing at  all.  For  what  a  man  calls  nothing  can  be  the 
world  and  all  that  there  is  in  it  to  a  woman.  Lady 
Holme  knew  that  she  and  the  American  had  been  ene- 
mies since  the  moment  when  the  latter  had  moved  with 
the  tiny  steps  that  so  oddly  caricatured  her  own  indi- 
vidual walk  down  the  stairs  at  the  Carlton.  She  wanted 
no  tiresome  reasons;  nor  did  Miss  Schley.  Robin  was 
right,  of  course.     He  understood  women.     But  then — ? 

Should  she  go  to  the  theatre? 

The  night  came  and  she  went.  Whether  an  extraor- 
dinary white  lace  gown,  which  arrived  from  Paris  in  the 
morning,  and  fitted  too  perfectly  for  words,  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  eventual  decision  was  not  known  to 
anybody  but  herself. 

Boxes  are  no  longer  popular  in  London  except  at 
the  Opera.  The  British  Theatre  was  new,  and  the  man- 
agement, recognising  that  people  prefer  stalls,  had  given 

151 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

up  all  the  available  space  to  them,  and  only  left  room 
for  two  large  boxes,  which  faced  each  other  on  a  level 
with  the  dress  circle  and  next  the  stage.  Lord  Holme 
had  one.     Mrs  Wolfstein  had  taken  the  other. 

Miss  Schley's  personal  success  in  London  brought 
together  a  rather  special  audience.  There  were  some  of 
the  usual  people  who  go  to  first  nights — critics,  ladies 
who  describe  dresses,  fashionable  lawyers  and  doctors. 
But  there  were  also  numbers  of  people  who  are  scarcely 
ever  seen  on  these  occasions,  people  who  may  be  found 
in  the  ground  and  grand  tier  boxes  at  Covent  Garden 
during  the  summer  season.  These  thronged  the  stalls, 
and  every  one  of  them  was  a  dear  friend  of  Lady 
Holme's.  Among  them  were  Lady  Cardington,  Lady 
Manby,  Sally  Perceval  with  her  magnificently  handsome 
and  semi-idiotic  husband,  old  Lady  Blower,  in  a  green 
cap  that  suggested  the  bathing  season,  Robin  Pierce 
and  Mr  Bry.  Smart  Americans  were  scattered  all  over 
the  house.  Most  of  them  had  already  seen  the  play  in 
New  York  during  the  preceding  winter,  and  nearly 
everyone  in  the  stalls  had  seen  the  French  original  in 
Paris.  The  French  piece  had  been  quite  shocking  and 
quite  delicious.  Every  Royalty  de  passage  in  Paris  had 
been  to  see  it,  and  one  wandering  monarch  had  gone 
three  nights  running,  and  had  laughed  until  his  gentle- 
man-in-waiting thought  the  heir  to  his  throne  was  likely 
to  succeed  much  sooner  than  was  generally  expected. 

The  Holmes  came  in  early.  Lady  Holme  hated  ar- 
riving anywhere  early,  but  Lord  Holme  was  in  such  a 
prodigious  fuss  about  being  in  plenty  of  time  to  give 
Miss  Schley  a  "rousin'  welcome,"  that  she  yielded  to 
his  bass  protestations,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  entering 
their  box  at  least  seven  minutes  before  the  curtain  went 
up.  The  stalls,  of  course,  were  empty,  and  as  they 
gradually  filled  she  saw  the  faces  of  her  friends  looking 

152 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

up  at  her  with  an  amazement  that  under  other  circum- 
stances might  have  been  amusing,  but  under  these  was 
rather  irritating.  Mr  Laycock  arrived  two  minutes  after 
they  did,  and  was  immediately  engaged  in  a  roaring 
conversation  by  Fritz.  He  was  a  man  who  talked  a 
great  deal  without  having  anything  to  say,  who  had 
always  had  much  success  with  women,  perhaps  because 
he  had  always  treated  them  very  badly,  who  dressed, 
danced  and  shot  well,  and  who  had  never,  even  for  a 
moment,  really  cared  for  anyone  but  himself.  A  common 
enough  type. 

Sir  Donald  appeared  next,  looking  even  more  ghostly 
than  usual.  He  sat  down  by  Lady  Holme,  a  little  behind 
her.  He  seemed  depressed,  but  the  expression  in  his 
pale  blue  eyes  when  they  first  rested  upon  her  made  her 
thoroughly  realise  one  thing — that  it  was  one  of  her 
conquering  nights.  His  eyes  travelled  quickly  from  her 
face  to  her  throat,  to  her  gown.  She  wore  no  jewels. 
Sir  Donald  had  a  fastidious  taste  in  beauty — the  taste 
that  instinctively  rejects  excess  of  any  kind.  Her  appeal 
to  it  had  never  been  so  great  as  to-night.  She  knew  it, 
and  felt  that  she  had  never  found  Sir  Donald  so  attractive 
as  to-night. 

Mr  and  Mrs  Ulford  came  in  just  as  the  curtain  was 
going  up,  and  the  introductions  had  to  be  gone  through 
with  a  certain  mysterious  caution,  and  the  sitting  ar- 
rangements made  with  as  little  noise  as  possible.  Lady 
Holme  managed  them  deftly.  Mr  Laycock  sat  nearest 
the  stage,  then  Leo  Ulford  next  to  her,  on  her  right. 
Sir  Donald  was  on  her  other  side,  Mrs  Leo  sat  in  the 
place  of  honour,  with  Lord  Holme  between  her  and 
Sir  Donald.  She  was  intensely  pink.  Even  her  gown 
was  of  that  colour,  and  she  wore  a  pink  aigrette  in  her 
hair,  fastened  with  a  diamond  ornament.  Her  thin,  be- 
traying throat  was  clasped  by  the  large  dog-collar  she 

153 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

had  worn  at  Arkell  House.  She  cast  swift,  bird-Hke 
glances,  full  of  a  sort  of  haggard  inquiry,  towards  Lady 
Holme  as  she  settled  down  in  her  armchair  in  the 
corner.  Lord  Holme  looked  at  her  and  at  her  ear- 
trumpet,  and  Lady  Holme  was  glad  she  had  decided  not 
to  have  neuralgia.  There  are  little  compensations  all 
about  women  even  in  the  tiresome  moments  of  their 
lives.  Whether  this  moment  was  going  to  be  tiresome 
or  not  she  could  not  yet  decide. 

The  Wolfstein  party  had  come  in  at  the  same  time  as 
the  Leo  Ulfords,  and  the  box  opposite  presented  an 
interesting  study  of  Jewish  types.  For  Mrs  Wolfstein 
and  "Henry"  were  accompanied  by  four  immensely  rich 
compatriots,  three  of  whom  were  members  of  the  syndi- 
cate that  was  "backing"  Miss  Schley.  The  fourth  was 
the  wife  of  one  of  them,  and  a  cousin  of  Henry's,  whom 
she  resembled,  but  on  a  greatly  enlarged  scale.  Both 
she  and  Amalia  blazed  with  jewels,  and  both  were  slightly 
over-dressed  and  looked  too  animated.  Lady  Holme 
saw  Sir  Donald  glance  at  them,  and  then  again  at  her, 
and  began  to  think  more  definitely  that  the  evening 
would  not  be  tiresome. 

Leo  Ulford  seemed  at  present  forced  into  a  certain 
constraint  by  the  family  element  in  the  box.  He  looked 
at  his  father  sideways,  then  at  Lady  Holme,  drummed 
one  hand  on  his  knee,  and  was  evidently  uncertain  of 
himself.  During  the  opening  scene  of  the  play  he  found 
an  opportunity  to  whisper  to  Lady  Holme, — 

"I  never  can  talk  when  pater's  there!" 

She  whispered  back, — 

"We  mustn't  talk  now." 

Then  she  looked  towards  the  stage  with  apparent 
interest.  Mrs  Leo  sat  sideways  with  her  trumpet  lifted 
up  towards  her  ear,  Lord  Holme  had  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  stage,  and  held  his  hands  ready  for  the  "rousin' 

154 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

welcome."  Mr  Laycock,  at  the  end  of  the  row,  was 
also  all  attention.  Lady  Holme  glanced  from  one 
to  the  other,  and  murmured  to  Sir  Donald,  with  a 
smile, — 

"I  think  we  shall  find  to-night  that  the  claque  is  not 
abolished  in  England." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  and  looked  distressed. 

"I  have  very  little  hope  of  her  acting,"  he  murmured 
back. 

Lady  Holme  put  her  fan  to  her  lips. 

"  'Sh!    No  sacrilege!"  she  said  in  an  under  voice. 

She  saw  Leo  Ulford  shoot  an  angry  glance  at  his 
father.  Mrs  Wolfstein  nodded  and  smiled  at  her  from 
the  opposite  box,  and  it  struck  Lady  Holme  that  her 
smile  was  more  definitely  malicious  than  usual,  and  that 
her  large  black  eyes  were  full  of  a  sort  of  venomous 
anticipation.  Mrs  Wolfstein  had  at  all  times  an  almost 
frightfully  expressive  face.  To-night  it  had  surely  dis- 
carded every  shred  of  reticence,  and  proclaimed  an  eager 
expectation  of  something  which  Lady  Holme  could  not 
divine,  but  which  must  surely  be  very  disagreeable  to 
her.  What  could  it  possibly  be?  And  was  it  in  any  way 
connected  with  Miss  Schley's  anxiety  that  she  should  be 
there  that  night?  She  began  to  wish  that  the  American 
would  appear,  but  Miss  Schley  had  nothing  to  do  in  the 
first  act  till  near  the  end,  and  then  had  only  one  short 
scene  to  bring  down  the  curtain.  Lady  Holme  knew 
this  because  she  had  seen  the  play  in  Paris.  She  thought 
the  American  version  very  dull.  The  impropriety  had 
been  removed  and  with  it  all  the  fun.  People  began  to 
yawn  and  to  assume  the  peculiar  blank  expression — the 
bankrupt  face — that  is  indicative  of  thwarted  anticipa- 
tion. Only  the  Americans  who  had  seen  the  piece  in 
New  York  preserved  their  lively  looks  and  an  appear- 
ance of  being  on  the  qui  vive. 

155 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Lord  Holme's  blunt  brown  features  gradually  drooped, 
seemed  to  become  definitely  elongated.  As  time  went 
on  he  really  began  to  look  almost  lantern-jawed.  He 
bent  forward  and  tried  to  catch  Mr  Laycock's  eye  and 
to  telegraph  an  urgent  question,  but  only  succeeded  in 
meeting  the  surly  blue  eyes  of  Leo  Ulford,  whom  he  met 
to-night  for  the  first  time.  In  his  despair  he  turned 
towards  Mrs  Leo,  and  at  once  encountered  the  ear- 
trumpet.  He  glanced  at  it  with  apprehension,  and,  after 
a  moment  of  vital  hesitation,  was  about  to  pour  into  it 
the  provender,  "Have  you  any  notion  when  she's  comin' 
on?"  when  there  was  a  sudden,  rather  languid  slapping 
of  applause,  and  he  jerked  round  hastily  to  find  Miss 
Schley  already  on  the  stage  and  welcomed  without  any 
of  the  assistance  which  he  was  specially  there  to  give. 
He  lifted  belated  hands,  but  met  a  glance  from  his  wife 
which  made  him  drop  them  silently.  There  was  a  satire 
in  her  eyes,  a  sort  of  humorous,  half-urging  patronage 
that  pierced  the  hide  of  his  self-satisfied  and  lethargic 
mind.  She  seemed  sitting  there  ready  to  beat  time  to 
his  applause,  nod  her  head  to  it  as  to  a  childish  strain 
of  jigging  music.  And  this  apparent  preparation  for 
a  semi-comic,  semi-pitiful  benediction  sent  his  hands 
suddenly  to  his  knees. 

He  stared  at  the  stage.  Miss  Schley  was  looking 
wonderfully  like  Viola,  he  thought,  on  the  instant,  more 
like  than  she  did  in  real  life;  like  Viola  gone  to  the  bad, 
though,  become  a  very  reticent,  yet  very  definite,  cocotte. 
There  was  not  much  in  the  scene,  but  Miss  Schley,  with- 
out apparent  effort  and  with  a  profound  demureness, 
turned  the  dulness  of  it  into  something  that  was — not 
French,  certainly  not  that — but  that  was  quite  as  out- 
rageous as  the  French  had  been,  though  in  a  different 
way;  something  without  definite  nationality,  but  instinct 
with  the  slyness  of  acute  and  unscrupulous  womanhood. 

156 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

The  extraordinary  thing  was  the  marvellous  resemblance 
this  acute  and  unscrupulous  womanhood  bore  to  Lady 
Holme's,  even  through  all  its  obvious  difference  from 
hers.  All  her  little  mannerisms  of  voice,  look,  manner 
and  movement  were  there,  but  turned  towards  common- 
ness, even  towards  a  na'ive  but  very  self-conscious  im- 
propriety. Had  she  been  a  public  performer  instead  of 
merely  a  woman  of  the  world,  the  whole  audience  must 
have  at  once  recognised  the  imitation.  As  it  was,  her 
many  friends  in  the  house  noticed  it,  and  during  the  short 
progress  of  the  scene  various  heads  were  turned  in  her 
direction,  various  faces  glanced  up  at  the  big  box  in 
which  she  sat,  leaning  one  arm  on  the  ledge,  and  looking 
towards  Miss  Schley  with  an  expression  of  quiet  obser- 
vation— a  little  indifferent — on  her  white  face.  Even  Sir 
Donald,  who  was  next  to  her,  and  who  once — in  the 
most  definite  moment  of  Miss  Schley's  ingenious  travesty 
— looked  at  her  for  an  instant,  could  not  discern  that 
she  was  aware  of  what  was  amusing  or  enraging  all  her 
acquaintance. 

Naturally  she  had  grasped  the  situation  at  once,  had 
discovered  at  once  why  Miss  Schley  was  anxious  for 
her  to  be  there.  As  she  sat  in  the  box  looking  on  at 
this  gross  impertinence,  she  seemed  to  herself  to  be 
watching  herself  after  a  long  degringolade,  which  had 
brought  her,  not  to  the  gutter,  but  to  the  smart  restau- 
rant, the  smart  music-hall,  the  smart  night  club,  the 
smart  everything  else  that  is  beyond  the  borderland  of 
even  a  lax  society.  This  was  Miss  Schley's  comment 
upon  her.  The  sting  of  it  lay  in  this  fact,  that  it  followed 
immediately  upon  the  heels  of  the  unpleasant  scene  at 
Arkell  House.  Otherwise,  she  thought  it  would  not  have 
troubled  her.  Now  it  did  trouble  her.  She  felt  not  only 
indignant  with  Miss  Schley.  She  felt  also  secretly  dis- 
tressed in  a  more  subtle  way.    Miss  Schley's  performance 

157 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

was  calculated,  coming  at  this  moment,  to  make  her 
world  doubtful  just  when  it  had  been  turned  from  doubt. 
A  good  caricature  fixes  the  attention  upon  the  oddities, 
or  the  absurdities,  latent  in  the  original.  But  this  cari- 
cature did  more.  It  suggested  hidden  possibilities  which 
she,  by  her  own  indiscreet  action  at  the  ball,  had  made 
perhaps  to  seem  probabilities  to  many  people. 

Here,  before  her  friends,  was  set  a  woman  strangely 
like  her,  but  evidently  a  bad  woman.  Lady  Holme  was 
certain  that  the  result  of  Miss  Schley's  performance  would 
be  that  were  she  to  do  things  now  which,  done  before 
the  Arkell  House  ball  and  this  first  night,  would  not  have 
been  noticed,  or  would  have  been  merely  smiled  at, 
they  would  be  commented  upon  with  acrimony,  exag- 
gerated, even  condemned. 

Miss  Schley  was  turning  upon  her  one  of  those  mirrors 
which  distorts  by  enlarging.  Society  would  be  likely  to 
see  her  permanently  distorted,  and  not  only  in  manner- 
isms but  in  character. 

It  happened  that  this  fact  was  specially  offensive  to 
her  on  this  particular  evening,  and  at  this  particular 
moment  of  her  Hfe. 

While  she  sat  there  and  watched  the  scene  run  its 
course,  and  saw,  without  seeming  to  see,  the  effect  it 
had  upon  those  whom  she  knew  well  in  the  house — saw 
Mrs  Wolfstein's  eager  delight  in  it.  Lady  Manby's  broad 
amusement,  Robin  Pierce's  carefully-controlled  indigna- 
tion, Mr  Bry's  sardonic  and  always  cold  gratification, 
Lady  Cardington's  surprised,  half-tragic  wonder — she 
was  oscillating  between  two  courses,  one  a  course  of 
reserve,  of  stern  self-control  and  abnegation,  the  other 
a  course  of  defiance,  of  reckless  indulgence  of  the  strong 
temper  that  dwelt  within  her,  and  that  occasionally 
showed  itself  for  a  moment,  as  it  had  on  the  evening  of 
Miss  Filberte's  fiasco.     That  temper  was  flaming  now 

158 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

unseen.  Was  she  going  to  throw  cold  water  over  the 
flame,  or  to  fan  it?    She  did  not  know. 

When  the  curtain  fell,  the  critics,  who  sometimes  seem 
to  enjoy  personally  what  they  call  very  sad  and  disgrace- 
ful in  print,  were  smiling  at  one  another.  The  blank 
faces  of  the  men  about  town  in  the  stalls  were  shining 
almost  unctuously.  The  smart  Americans  were  busily 
saying  to  everyone,  "Didn't  we  say  so?"  The  whole 
house  was  awake.  Miss  Schley  might  not  be  much  of 
an  actress.  Numbers  of  people  were  already  bustling 
about  to  say  that  she  could  not  act  at  all.  But  she  had 
banished  dulness.  She  had  shut  the  yawning  lips,  and 
stopped  that  uneasy  cough  which  is  the  expression  of  the 
relaxed  mind  rather  than  of  the  relaxed  throat. 

Lady  Holme  sat  back  a  little  in  the  box. 

"What  d'you  think  of  her?"  she  said  to  Sir  Donald. 
*T  think  she's  rather  piquant,  not  anywhere  near  Granier, 
of  course,  but  still — " 

"I  think  her  performance  entirely  odious,"  he  said, 
with  an  unusual  emphasis  that  was  almost  violent.  "En- 
tirely odious." 

He  got  up  from  his  seat,  striking  his  thin  fingers 
against  the  palms  of  his  hands. 

"Vulgar  and  ofifensive,"  he  said,  almost  as  if  to  him- 
self, and  with  a  sort  of  passion.    "Vulgar  and  offensive!" 

Suddenly  he  turned  away  and  went  out  of  the  box. 

"I  say—" 

Lady  Holme,  who  had  been  watching  Sir  Donald's 
disordered  exit,  looked  round  to  Leo. 

"I  say — "  he  repeated.    "What's  up  with  pater?" 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  be  enjoying  the  play." 

Leo  Ulford  looked  unusually  grave,  even  thoughtful, 
as  if  he  were  pondering  over  some  serious  question.  He 
kept  his  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  Lady  Holme.  At  last  he 
said,  in  a  voice  much  lower  than  usual, — 

159 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE   FAN 

"Poor  chap!" 

"Who's  a  poor  chap?" 

Leo  jerked  his  head  towards  the  door. 

"Your  father?    Why?" 

"Why— at  his  age!" 

The  last  words  were  full  of  boyish  contempt. 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Yes,  you  do.  To  be  like  that  at  his  age.  What's 
the  good?  As  if — "  He  smiled  slowly  at  her.  "I'm  glad 
I'm  young,"  he  said. 

"I'm  glad  you're  young,  too,"  she  answered.  "But 
you're  quite  wrong  about  Sir  Donald." 

She  let  her  eyes  rest  on  his.    He  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I'm  not.  I  guessed  it  that  day  at  the  Carlton. 
All  through  lunch  he  looked  at  you." 

"But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  Miss  Schley's  per- 
formance ?" 

"Because  she's  something  like  you,  but  low  down, 
where  you'd  never  go." 

He  drew  his  chair  a  little  closer  to  hers. 

"Would  you?"  he  added,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

Mr  Laycock,  who  was  in  raptures  over  Miss  Schley's 
performance,  had  got  up  to  speak  to  Fritz,  but  found  the 
latter  being  steadily  hypnotised  by  Mrs  Leo's  trumpet, 
which  went  up  towards  his  mouth  whenever  he  opened  it. 
He  bellowed  distracted  nothings,  but  could  not  make 
her  hear,  obtaining  no  more  fortunate  result  than  a  per- 
sistent flutter  of  pink  eyelids,  and  a  shrill,  reiterated,  "The 
what?    The  what?" 

A  sharp  tap  came  presently  on  the  box  door,  and 
Mrs  Wolfstein's  painted  face  appeared.  Lord  Holme 
sprang  up  with  undisguised  relief. 

"What  d'you  think  of  Pimpernel?  Ah,  Mr  Laycock — 
I  heard  your  faithful  hands." 

"Stunnin'!"  roared  Lord  Holme,  "simply  stunnin'!" 
i6o 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Stunnin'!  stunnin'!"  exclaimed  Mr  Laycock.  "Rip- 
pin'!    There's  no  other  word.    Simply  rippin'!" 

"The  what?    The  what?"  cried  Mrs  Ulford. 

Mrs  Wolfstein  bent  down,  with  expansive  affection, 
over  Lady  Holme's  chair,  and  clasped  the  left  hand 
which  Lady  Holme  carelessly  raised  to  a  level  with  her 
shoulder. 

"You  dear  person!  Nice  of  you  to  come,  and  in  such 
a  gown,  too!  The  angels  wear  white  lace  thrown  to- 
gether by  Victorine — it  is  Victorine?  I  was  certain! — 
I'm  sure.    D'you  like  Pimpernel?" 

Her  too  lustrous  eyes — even  Mrs  Wolfstein's  eyes 
looked  over-dressed — devoured  Lady  Holme,  and  her 
large,  curving  features  were  almost  riotously  interroga- 
tive. 

"Yes,"  Lady  Holme  said.    "Quite." 

"She's  startled  everybody." 

"Startled!— why?" 

"Oh,  well — she  has!  There's  money  in  it,  don't  you 
think?" 

"Henry,"  who  had  accompanied  his  wife,  and  who 
was  standing  sideways  at  the  back  of  the  box  looking 
like  a  thief  in  the  night,  came  a  step  forward  at  the 
mention  of  money. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  no  judge  of  that.  Your  husband  would 
know  better." 

"Plenty  of  money,"  said  "Henry,"  in  a  low  voice  that 
seemed  to  issue  from  the  bridge  of  his  nose;  "it  ought 
to  bring  a  good  six  thousand  into  the  house  for  the  four 
weeks.  That's — for  Miss  Schley — for  the  Syndicate — 
ten  per  cent  on  the  gross,  and  twenty-five  per  cent — " 

He  found  himself  in  mental  arithmetic. 

"The — swan  with  the  golden  eggs!"  said  Lady  Holme, 
lightly,  turning  once  more  to  Leo  Ulford.  "You  mustn't 
kill  Miss  Schley." 

i6i 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

Mrs  Wolfstein  looked  at  Mr  Laycock  and  murmured 
to  him, — 

"Pimpernel  does  any  killing  that's  going  about — for 
herself.    What  d'you  say,  Franky  ?" 

They  went  out  of  the  box  together,  followed  by 
"Henry,"  who  was  still  buzzing  calculations,  like  a  Jewish 
bee. 

Lord  Holme  resolutely  tore  himself  from  the  ear- 
trumpet,  and  was  preparing  to  follow,  with  the  bellowed 
excuse  that  he  was  "sufiferin'  from  toothache"  and  had 
been  ordered  to  "do  as  much  smokin'  as  possible,"  when 
the  curtain  rose  on  the  second  act. 

Miss  Schley  was  engaged  to  a  supper-party  that  even- 
ing and  did  not  wish  to  be  late.  Lord  Holme  sat  down 
again  looking  scarcely  pleasant. 

"Do  as  much — the  what?"  cried  Mrs  Ulford,  holding 
the  trumpet  at  right  angles  to  her  pink  face. 

Leo  Ulford  leant  backwards  and  hissed  "Hush!"  at 
her.  She  looked  at  him  and  then  at  Lady  Holme,  and  a 
sudden  expression  of  old  age  came  into  her  bird-like 
face  and  seemed  to  overspread  her  whole  body.  She 
dropped  the  trumpet  and  touched  the  diamonds  that  glit- 
tered in  the  front  of  her  low  gown  with  trembling  hands. 

Mr  Laycock  slipped  into  the  box  when  the  curtain 
had  been  up  two  or  three  minutes,  but  Sir  Donald  did 
not  return. 

"I  b'lieve  he's  bolted/'  Leo  whispered  to  Lady  Holme. 
"Just  like  him." 

"Why?" 

"Oh!— I'm  here  for  one  thing." 

He  looked  at  her  victoriously. 

"You'll  have  a  letter  from  him  to-morrow.  Poor  old 
chap!" 

He  spoke  contemptuously. 

For  the  first  time  Lord  Holme  seemed  consciously 

162 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

and  unfavorably  observant  of  his  wife  and  Leo.  His 
under-jaw  began  to  move.  But  Miss  Schley  came  on 
to  the  stage  again,  and  he  thrust  his  head  eagerly  for- 
ward. 

During  the  rest  of  the  evening  Miss  Schley  did  not 
relax  her  ingenious  efforts  of  mimicry,  but  she  took  care 
not  to  make  them  too  prominent.  She  had  struck  her 
most  resonant  note  in  the  first  act,  and  during  the  two 
remaining  acts  she  merely  kept  her  impersonation  to 
its  original  lines.  Lady  Holme  watched  the  whole  per- 
formance imperturbably,  but  before  the  final  curtain  fell 
she  knew  that  she  was  not  going  to  throw  cold  water 
on  that  flame  which  was  burning  within  her.  Fritz's 
behaviour,  perhaps,  decided  which  of  the  two  actions 
should  be  carried  out — the  douching  or  the  fanning. 
Possibly  Leo  Ulford  had  something  to  say  in  the  matter, 
too.  Or  did  the  faces  of  friends  below  in  the  stalls  play 
their  part  in  the  silent  drama  which  moved  step  by  step 
with  the  spoken  drama  on  the  stage?  Lady  Holme  did 
not  ask  questions  of  herself.  When  Mr  Laycock  and 
Fritz  were  furiously  performing  the  duties  of  a  claque 
at  the  end  of  the  play,  she  got  up  smiling,  and  nodded 
to  Mrs  Wolfstein  in  token  of  her  pleasure  in  Miss  Schley's 
success,  her  opinion  that  it  had  been  worthily  earned. 
As  she  nodded  she  touched  one  hand  with  the  other, 
making  a  silent  applause  that  Mrs  Wolfstein  and  all  her 
friends  might  see.  Then  she  let  Leo  Ulford  put  on  her 
cloak  and  called  pretty  words  down  Mrs  Leo's  trumpet, 
all  the  while  nearly  deafened  by  Fritz's  demonstrations, 
which  even  outran  Mr  Laycock's. 

When  at  last  they  died  away  she  said  to  Leo, — 
'We  are  going  on  to  the  Elwyns'.  Shall  you  be  there?" 
He  stood  over  her,  while  Mrs  Ulford  watched  him, 
drooping  her  head  sideways. 
"Yes." 

163 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"We  can  talk  it  all  over  quietly.    Fritz!" 

"What's  that  about  the  Elwyns  ?"  said  Lord  Holme. 

"I  was  telling  Mr  Ulford  that  we  are  going  on  there." 

"I'm  not.    Never  heard  of  it" 

Lady  Holme  was  on  the  point  of  retorting  that  it  was 
he  who  had  told  her  to  accept  the  invitation  on  the 
ground  that  "the  Elwyns  always  do  you  better  than 
anyone  in  London,  whether  they're  second-raters  or  not," 
but  a  look  in  Leo  Ulford's  eyes  checked  her. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  "Go  to  the  club  if  you  like,  but 
I  must  peep  in  for  five  minutes.  Mrs  Ulford,  didn't  you 
think  Miss  Schley  rather  delicious — ?" 

She  went  out  of  the  box  with  one  hand  on  a  pink  arm, 
talking  gently  into  the  trumpet. 

"You  goin'  to  the  Elwyns'?"  said  Lord  Holme,  grufifly, 
to  Leo  Ulford  as  they  got  their  coats  and  prepared  to 
follow. 

"Depends  on  my  wife.     If  she's  done  up — " 

"Ah!"  said  Lord  Holme,  striking  a  match,  and  holding 
out  his  cigarette  case,  regardless  of  regulations. 

A  momentary  desire  to  look  in  at  the  Elwyns'  pos- 
sessed him.  Then  he  thought  of  a  supper-party  and 
forgot  it. 


164 


XI 

MRS  WOLFSTEIN  was  right.  There  was 
money  in  Miss  Schley's  performance.  Her  sly 
impropriety  appealed  with  extraordinary  force 
to  the  peculiar  respectability  characteristic  of  the  British 
temperament,  and  her  celebrity,  hitherto  mainly  social, 
was  suddenly  and  enormously  increased.  Already  a 
popular  person,  she  became  a  popular  actress,  and  was 
soon  as  well-known  to  the  world  in  the  streets  and  the 
suburbs  as  to  the  world  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  Mayfair. 
And  this  public  celebrity  greatly  increased  the  value  that 
was  put  upon  her  in  private — especially  the  value  put 
upon  her  by  men. 

The  average  man  adores  being  connected  openly  with 
the  woman  who  is  the  rage  of  the  moment.  It  flatters 
his  vanity  and  makes  him  feel  good  all  over.  It  even 
frequently  turns  his  head  and  makes  him  almost  as  in- 
toxicated as  a  young  girl  with  adulation  received  at  her 
first  ball. 

The  combination  of  Miss  Schley  herself  and  Miss 
Schley's  celebrity — or  notoriety — had  undoubtedly  turned 
Lord  Holme's  head.  Perhaps  he  had  not  the  desire  to 
conceal  the  fact.  Certainly  he  had  not  the  finesse.  He 
presented  his  turned  head  to  the  world  with  an  audacious 
simplicity  that  was  almost  laughable,  and  that  had  in  it 
an  element  of  boyishness  not  wholly  unattractive  to  those 
who  looked  on — the  casual  ones  to  whom  even  the 
tragedies  of  a  highly-civihsed  society  bring  but  a  quiet 
and  cynical  amusement. 

165 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

Lady  Holme  was  not  one  of  these.  Her  strong  temper 
was  token  of  a  vivid  temperament.  Till  now  this  vivid 
temperament  had  been  rocked  in  the  cradle  of  an  easy, 
a  contented,  a  very  successful  life.  Such  storms  as  had 
come  to  her  had  quickly  passed  away.  The  sun  had 
never  been  far  ofif.  Her  egoism  had  been  constantly 
flattered.  Her  will  had  been  perpetually  paramount. 
Even  the  tryanny  of  Lord  Holme  had  been  but 
as  the  tyranny  of  a  selfish,  thoughtless,  pleasure- 
seeking  boy  who,  after  all,  was  faithful  to  her  and  was 
fond  of  her.  His  temperamental  indifference  to  any 
feelings  but  his  own  had  been  often  concealed  and  over- 
laid by  his  strong  physical  passion  for  his  wife's  beauty, 
his  profound  satisfaction  in  having  carried  off  and  in 
possessing  a  woman  admired  and  sought  by  many  others. 

Suddenly  life  presented  to  Lady  Holme  its  seamy  side; 
Fate  attacking  her  in  her  woman's  vanity,  her  egoism, 
even  in  her  love.  The  vision  startled.  The  blow  stung. 
She  was  conscious  of  confusion,  of  cloud,  then  of  a  ter- 
rible orderliness,  of  a  clear  light.  In  the  confusion  she 
seemed  to  hear  voices  never  heard  before,  voices  that 
dared  to  jeer  at  her,  in  the  cloud  to  see  phantoms  of 
gigantic  size  menacing  her,  impending  over  her.  The 
orderliness,  the  clear  light  were  more  frightful  to  her. 
They  left  less  to  her  imagination,  had,  as  it  were,  no 
ragged  edges.  In  them  she  faced  a  definite  catastrophe, 
saw  it  whole,  as  one  sees  a  near  object  in  the  magical 
atmosphere  of  the  East,  outlined  with  burning  blue  quiv- 
ering with  relentless  gold.  She  saw  herself  in  the  dust, 
pelted,  mocked  at. 

That  seemed  at  first  to  be  incredible.  But  she  saw 
it  so  plainly  that  she  could  not  even  pretend  to  herself 
that  she  was  deceived  by  some  unusual  play  of  light  or 
combination  of  shadows.    What  she  saw — was. 

Her  husband  had  thrown  off  his  allegiance  to  her 
i66 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

and  transferred  his  admiration,  perhaps  his  affection,  to 
the  woman  who  had  most  deftly  and  deHcately  insulted 
her  in  the  face  of  all  her  world.  And  he  had  done  this 
with  the  most  abominable  publicity.  That  was  what  she 
saw  in  a  clear  light  like  the  light  of  the  East.  That 
was  what  sent  a  lash  across  her  temperament,  scarring 
it  perhaps,  but  waking  it  into  all  it  could  ever  have  of 
life.  In  each  woman  there  is  hidden  a  second  woman, 
more  fierce  and  tender,  more  evil  and  good,  more  strong 
and  fervent  than  the  woman  who  hides  her  in  the  ordinary 
hours  of  life;  a  woman  who  weeps  blood  where  the  other 
woman  weeps  tears,  who  strikes  with  a  flaming  sword 
where  the  other  woman  strikes  with  a  willow  wand. 

This  woman  now  rose  up  in  Lady  Holme,  rose  up  to 
do  battle. 

The  laughing,  frivolous  world  was  all  unconscious  of 
her.  Lord  Holme  was  unconscious  of  her.  But  she  was 
at  last  fully  conscious  of  herself. 

This  woman  remembered  Robin  Pierce's  odd  belief 
and  the  light  words  with  which  she  had  chastised  it.  He 
had  persistently  kept  faith  in,  and  sought  for,  a  far-away 
being.  But  she  was  a  being  of  light  and  glory.  His 
kernel  of  the  husk  was  still  a  siren,  but  a  siren  with  a 
heart,  with  an  exquisite  imagination,  with  a  fragrance  of 
dreams  about  her,  a  lilt  of  eternal  music  in  her  voice,  the 
beaming  wonder  of  things  unearthly  in  her  eyes.  Poor 
Robin!  Lady  Holme  found  it  in  her  heart  to  pity  him 
as  she  realised  herself.  But  then  she  turned  her  pity 
aside  and  concentrated  it  elsewhere.  The  egoism  of  her 
was  not  dead  though  the  hidden  woman  had  sprung  up 
in  vivid  life.  Her  intellect  was  spurred  into  energy  by 
the  suffering  of  her  pride  and  of  her  heart.  Memory  was 
restless  and  full  of  the  passion  of  recall. 

She  remembered  the  night  when  she  softly  drew  up 
the  hood   of  her  dressing-gown   above   her  head  and, 

167 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

rocking  herself  to  and  fro,  murmured  the  "Allah-Akbar" 
of  a  philosophic  fatalist — "I  will  live  for  the  day.  I  will 
live  for  the  night."  What  an  absurd  patter  that  was  on 
the  lips  of  a  woman!  And  she  remembered  the  conver- 
sation with  Fritz  that  had  preceded  her  monologue.  She 
had  asked  him  then  whether  he  could  love  her  if  her 
beauty  were  taken  from  her.  It  had  never  occurred  to 
her  that  while  her  beauty  still  remained  her  spell  upon 
him  might  be  weakened,  might  be  broken.  That  it  was 
broken  now  she  did  not  say  to  herself.  All  she  did  say 
to  herself  was  that  she  must  strike  an  efifective  blow 
against  this  impertinent  woman.  She  had  some  pride 
but  not  enough  to  keep  her  passive.  She  was  not  one  of 
those  women  who  would  rather  lose  all  they  have  than 
struggle  to  keep  it.  She  meant  to  struggle,  but' she  had 
no  wish  that  the  world  should  know  what  she  was  doing. 
Pride  rose  in  her  when  she  thought  of  cold  eyes  watch- 
ing the  battle,  cold  voices  commenting  on  it — Amalia 
Wolfstein's  eyes,  Mr  Bry's  voice,  a  hundred  other  eyes 
and  voices.  Her  quickened  intellect,  her  woman's  heart 
would  teach  her  to  be  subtle.  The  danger  lay  in  her 
temper.  But  since  the  scene  at  Arkell  House  she  had 
thoroughly  realised  its  impetuosity  and  watched  it  warily 
as  one  watches  an  enemy.  She  did  not  intend  to  be 
ruined  by  anything  within  her.  The  outside  chances  of 
life  were  many  enough  and  deadly  enough  to  deal  with. 
Strength  and  daring  were  needed  to  ward  them  off.  The 
chances  that  had  their  origin  within  the  soul,  the  charac- 
ter— not  really  chances  at  all — must  be  controlled,  fore- 
seen, forestalled. 

And  yet  she  had  not  douched  the  flame  of  defiance 
which  she  had  felt  burning  within  her  on  the  night  of 
Pimpernel  Schley's  first  appearance  on  the  London  stage. 
She  had  fanned  it.  At  the  Elwyns'  ball  she  had  fanned  it. 
Temper  had  led  her  that  night.    Deliberately,  and  know- 

i68 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

ing  perfectly  well  who  was  her  guide,  she  had  let  it  lead 
her.  She  had  been  like  a  human  being  who  says,  "To 
do  this  will  be  a  sin.  Very  well,  I  choose  to  sin.  But  I 
will  sin  carefully."  At  the  Elwyns'  she  had  discovered 
why  her  husband  had  not  come  with  her.  She  had 
stayed  late  to  please  Leo  Ulford.  Mr  Laycock  had  come 
in  about  two  in  the  morning  and  had  described  to  Leo 
the  festivity  devised  by  Lord  Holme  in  honour  of  Miss 
Schley,  at  which  he  had  just  been  present.  And  Leo 
Ulford  had  repeated  the  description  to  her.  She  had 
deceived  him  into  thinking  that  she  had  known  of  the 
supper-party  and  approved  of  it.  But,  after  this  decep- 
tion, she  had  given  a  looser  rein  to  her  temper.  She  had 
let  herself  go,  careless  whether  she  set  the  poor  pink 
eyelids  of  Mrs  Leo  fluttering  or  not. 

The  hint  of  Fritz  which  she  recognised  in  Leo  Ulford 
had  vaguely  attracted  her  to  him  from  the  first.  How 
her  world  would  have  laughed  at  such  a  domestic  senti- 
ment! She  found  herself  wondering  whether  it  were 
Miss  Schley's  physical  resemblance  to  her  which  had 
first  attracted  Fritz,  the  touch  of  his  wife  in  a  woman 
who  was  not  his  wife  and  who  was  what  men  call  "a. 
rascal."  Perhaps  Fritz  loved  Miss  Schley's  imitation  of 
her.  She  thought  a  great  deal  about  that,  turning  it 
over  and  over  in  her  mind,  bringing  to  bear  on  it  the 
white  light  of  her  knowledge  of  her  husband's  character. 
Did  he  see  in  the  American  his  wife  transformed,  made 
common,  sly,  perhaps  wicked,  set  on  the  outside  edge 
of  decent  life,  or  further — over  the  border?  And  did  he 
delight  in  that?  If  so,  ought  she  not  to — ?  Then  her 
mind  was  busy.  Should  she  change?  If  herself  changed 
were  his  ideal,  why  not  give  him  what  he  wanted?  Why 
let  another  woman  give  it  to  him?  But  at  this  point  she 
recognised  a  fact  recognised  by  thousands  of  women  with 
exasperation,  sometimes  with  despair — that  men  would 

169 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

often  hate  in  their  wives  the  thing  that  draws  them  to 
women  not  their  wives.  The  Pimpernel  Schleys  of  the 
world  know  this  masculine  propensity  of  seeking  differ- 
ent things — opposites  even — in  the  wife  and  the  woman 
beyond  the  edge  of  the  hearthstone,  a  propensity  perhaps 
more  tragic  to  wives  than  any  other  that  exists  in  hus- 
bands. And  having  recognised  this  fact,  Lady  Holme 
knew  that  it  would  be  worse  than  useless  for  her  to 
imitate  Miss  Schley's  imitation  of  her.  Then,  travelling 
along  the  road  of  thought  swiftly  as  women  in  such  a 
case  always  travel,  she  reached  another  point.  She  began 
to  consider  the  advice  of  Robin  Pierce,  given  before  she 
had  begun  to  feel  with  such  intensity,  to  consider  it  as 
a  soldier  might  consider  a  plan  of  campaign  drawn  up 
by  another. 

Should  she,  instead  of  descending,  of  following  the 
demure  steps  of  the  American  to  the  lower  places,  strive 
to  ascend? 

Could  she  ascend?  Was  Robin  Pierce  right?  She 
thought  for  a  long  time  about  his  conception  of  her.  The 
singing  woman;  would  she  be  the  most  powerful  enemy 
that  could  confront  Miss  Schley?  And,  if  she  would 
be,  could  the  singing  woman  be  made  continuous  in  the 
speech  and  the  actions  of  the  life  without  music?  She 
remembered  a  man  she  had  known  who  stammered  when 
he  spoke,  but  never  stammered  when  he  sang.  And  she 
thought  she  resembled  this  man.  Robin  Pierce  had 
always  believed  that  she  could  speak  without  the  stammer 
even  as  she  sang  without  it.  She  had  never  cared  to. 
She  had  trusted  absolutely  in  her  beauty.  Now  her  trust 
was  shaken.    She  thought  of  the  crutch. 

Realising  herself  she  had  said  within  herself,  "Poor 
Robin!"  seeing  perhaps  the  tigress  where  he  saw  the 
angel.  Now  she  asked  herself  whether  the  angel  could 
conquer  where  the  tigress  might  fail.    People  had  come 

170 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

round  her  like  beggars  who  have  heard  the  chink  of  gold 
and  she  had  shown  them  an  empty  purse.  Could  she 
show  them  something  else?  And  if  she  could,  would  her 
husband  join  the  beggars?  Would  he  care  to  have  even 
one  piece  of  gold? 

Whether  Lord  Holme's  obvious  infatuation  had  carried 
him  very  far  she  did  not  know.  She  did  not  stop  to  ask. 
A  woman  capable,  as  she  was,  of  retrospective  jealousy, 
an  egoist  accustomed  to  rule,  buffeted  in  heart  and  pride, 
is  swift,  not  sluggish.  And  then  how  can  one  know  these 
things?    Jealousy  rushes  because  it  is  ignorant. 

Lord  Holme  and  she  were  apparently  on  good  terms. 
She  was  subtle,  he  was  careless.  As  she  did  not  inter- 
fere with  him  his  humour  was  excellent.  She  had  carried 
self-control  so  far  as  never  to  allude  to  the  fact  that  she 
knew  about  the  supper-party.  Yet  it  had  actually  got 
into  the  papers.  Paragraphs  had  been  written  about  a 
wonderful  ornament  of  ice,  representing  the  American 
eagle  perched  on  the  wrist  of  a  glittering  maiden,  which 
had  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  table.  Of  course  she  had 
seen  them,  and  of  course  Lord  Holme  thought  she  had 
not  seen  them,  as  she  had  never  spoken  of  them.  He 
went  his  way  rejoicing,  and  there  seemed  to  be  sunshine 
in  the  Cadogan  Square  house.  And  meanwhile  the  world 
was  smiling  at  the  apparent  triumph  of  impertinence,  and 
wondering  how  long  it  would  last,  how  far  it  would  go. 
The  few  who  were  angry — Sir  Donald  was  one  of  them — 
were  in  a  mean  minority. 

Robin  Pierce  was  angry,  too,  but  not  with  so  much 
single-heartedness  as  was  Sir  Donald.  It  could  not 
quite  displease  him  if  the  Holmes  drifted  apart.  Yet 
he  was  fond  enough  of  Lady  Holme,  and  he  was  subtle 
enough,  to  be  sorry  for  any  sorrow  of  hers,  and  to 
understand  it — at  anyrate,  partially — without  much  ex- 
planation.    Perhaps  he  would  have  been  more  sorry  if 

171 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Leo  Ulford  had  not  come  into  Lady  Holme's  life,  and  if 
the  defiance  within  her  had  not  driven  her  into  an  inti- 
macy that  distressed  Mrs  Leo  and  puzzled  Sir  Donald. 

Robin's  time  in  London  was  very  nearly  at  an  end. 
The  season  was  at  its  height.  Every  day  was  crowded 
with  engagements.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  find  a 
quiet  moment  even  to  give  to  a  loved  one.  But  Robin 
was  determined  to  have  at  least  one  hour  with  Lady 
Holme  before  he  started  for  Italy.  He  told  her  so,  and 
begged  her  to  arrange  it.  She  put  him  off  again  and 
again,  then  at  last  made  an  engagement,  then  broke  it. 
In  her  present  condition  of  mind  to  break  faith  with  a 
man  was  a  pleasure  with  a  bitter  savour.  But  Robin 
was  not  to  be  permanently  avoided.  He  had  obstinacy. 
He  meant  to  have  his  hour,  and  perhaps  Lady  Holme 
always  secretly  meant  that  he  should  have  it.  At  any- 
rate  she  made  another  appointment  and  kept  it. 

She  came  one  afternoon  to  his  house  in  Half  Moon 
Street.  She  had  never  been  there  before.  She  had 
never  meant  to  go  there.  To  do  so  was  an  imprudence. 
That  fact  was  another  of  the  pleasures  with  a  bitter 
savour. 

Robin  met  her  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  with  an  air 
of  still  excitement  not  common  in  his  look  and  bearing. 
He  followed  her  into  the  blue  room  where  Sir  Donald 
had  talked  with  Carey.  The  "Danseuse  de  Timisie"  still 
presided  over  it,  holding  her  little  marble  fan.  The 
open  fireplace  was  filled  with  roses.  The  tea-table  was 
already  set  by  the  great  square  couch.  Robin  shut  the 
door  and  took  out  a  matchbox. 

"I  am  going  to  make  tea,"  he  said. 

"Bachelor  fashion?" 

She  sat  down  on  the  couch  and  looked  around  quickly, 
taking  in  all  the  details  of  the  room.  He  saw  her  eyes 
rest  on  the  woman  with  the  fan,  but  she  said  nothing 

172 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

about  it.  He  lit  a  silver  spirit  lamp  and  then  sat  down 
beside  her. 

"At  last!"  he  said. 

Lady  Holme  leaned  back  in  her  corner.  She  was 
dressed  in  black,  with  a  small,  rather  impertinent  black 
toque,  in  which  one  pale  blue  wing  of  a  bird  stood  up. 
Her  face  looked  gay  and  soft,  and  Robin,  who  had 
cunning,  recognised  that  quality  of  his  in  her. 

"I  oughtn't  to  be  here." 

"Absurd.    Why  not?" 

"Fritz  has  a  jealous  temperament." 

She  spoke  with  a  simple  naturalness  that  moved  the 
diplomat  within  him  to  a  strong  admiration. 

"You  can  act  far  better  than  Miss  Schley,"  he  said, 
with  intentional  bluntness. 

"I  love  her  acting." 

"I'm  going  away.  I  sha'n't  see  you  for  an  age.  Don't 
give  me  a  theatrical  performance  to-day." 

"Can  a  woman  do  anything  else?" 

"Yes.    She  can  be  a  woman." 

"That's  stupid — or  terrible.  What  a  dear  little  lamp 
that  is!    I  Hke  your  room." 

Robin  looked  at  the  blue-grey  linen  on  the  walls,  at 
the  pale  blue  wing  in  her  hat,  then  at  her  white  face. 

"Viola,"  he  said,  leaning  forward,  "it's  bad  to  waste 
anything  in  this  life,  but  the  worst  thing  of  all  is  to  waste 
unhappiness.  If  I  could  teach  you  to  be  niggardly  of 
your  tears!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

She  spoke  with  sudden  sharpness. 

"I  never  cry.    Nothing's  worth  a  tear,"  she  added. 

"Yes,  some  things  are.  But  not  what  you  are  going 
to  weep  for."    . 

Her  face  had  changed.  The  gaiety  had  gone  out  of 
it,  and  it  looked  hesitating. 

173 


THE  WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"You  think  I  am  going  to  shed  tears?"  she  said. 
"Why?" 

"I  am  glad  you  let  me  tell  you.  For  the  loss  of  noth- 
ing— a  coin  that  never  came  out  of  the  mint,  that  won't 
pass  current  anywhere." 

"I've  lost  nothing,"  she  exclaimed,  "nothing.  You're 
talking  nonsense." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  looked  at  the  small,  steady 
flame  of  the  lamp.  She  followed  his  eyes,  and,  when  he 
saw  that  she  was  looking  at  it  too,  he  said, — 

"Isn't  a  little,  steady  flame  like  that  beautiful  ?" 

She  laughed. 

"When  it  means  tea — yes.    Does  it  mean  tea?" 

"If  you  can  wait  a  few  minutes." 

"I  suppose  I  must.  Have  you  heard  anything  of  Mr 
Carey?" 

Robin  looked  at  her  narrowly. 

"What  made  you  think  of  him  just  then?" 

"I  don't  know.  Being  here,  I  suppose.  He  often 
comes  here,  doesn't  he?" 

"Then  this  room  holds  more  of  his  personality  than 
of  mine?" 

There  was  an  under  sound  of  vexation  in  his 
voice. 

"Have  you  heard  anything?" 

"No.  But  no  doubt  he's  still  in  the  North  with  his 
mother." 

"How  domestic !  I  hope  there  is  a  stool  of  repentance 
in  the  family  house." 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  ever  repent  of  anything." 

"Do  you  think  there  is  anything  I  ought  to  repent 
of?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"What?" 

"You  might  have  married  a  man  who  knew  the  truth 

174 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

of  you,  and  you  married  a  man  incapable  of  ever  know- 
ing it." 

He  half  expected  an  outburst  of  anger  to  follow  his 
daring  speech,  but  she  sat  quite  still,  looking  at  him 
steadily.  She  had  taken  off  her  gloves,  and  her  hands 
lay  lightly,  one  resting  on  the  other. 

"You  mean,  I  might  have  married  you." 

"I'm  not  worth  much,  but  at  least  I  could  never  have 
betrayed  the  white  angel  in  you." 

She  leaned  towards  him  and  spoke  earnestly,  almost 
Hke  a  child  to  an  older  person  in  whom  it  has  faith. 

"Do  you  think  such  an  angel  could  do  anything  in — 
in  this  sort  of  world?" 

"Modern  London?" 

She  nodded,  keeping  her  eyes  still  on  him.  He  guessed 
at  once  of  what  she  was  thinking. 

"Do  anything — is  rather  vague,"  he  replied  evasively. 
"What  sort  of  thing?" 

Suddenly  she  threw  off  all  reserve  and  let  her  tem- 
per go. 

"If  an  angel  were  striving  with  a  common  American; 
do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know  which  would 
go  to  the  wall  in  our  world?"  she  cried.  "Robin,  you 
may  be  a  thousand  things,  but  you  aren't  a  fool.  Nor 
am  I — not  ati  fond.  And  yet  I  have  thought — I  have 
wondered — " 

She  stopped. 

"What?"  he  asked. 

"Whether,  if  there  is  an  angel  in  me,  it  mightn't  be 
as  well  to  trot  it  out." 

The  self-consciousness  of  the  slang  prevented  him 
from  hating  it. 

"Ah!"  he  said.    "When  have  you  wondered?" 

"Lately.  It's  your  fault.  You  have  insisted  so  much 
upon  the  existence  of  the  celestial  being  that  at  last  I've 

175 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

become  almost  credulous.    It's  very  absurd  and  I'm  still 
hanging  back." 

"Call  credulity  belief  and  you  needn't  be  ashamed 
of  it." 

"And  if  I  believe,  what  then?" 

"Then  a  thousand  things.  Belief  sheds  strength 
through  all  the  tissues  of  the  mind,  the  heart,  the  tem- 
perament. Disbelief  sheds  weakness.  The  one  knits 
together,  the  other  dissolves." 

"There  are  people  who  think  angels  frightfully  boring 
company." 

"I  know." 

"Well  then?" 

Suddenly  Robin  got  up  and  spoke  almost  brutally. 

"Do  you  think  I  don't  see  that  you  are  trying  to 
find  out  from  me  what  I  think  would  be  the  best  means 
of—" 

The  look  in  her  face  stopped  him. 

"I  think  the  water  is  boiling,"  he  said,  going  over  to 
the  lamp. 

"It  ought  to  bubble,"  she  answered  quietly. 

He  lifted  up  the  lid  of  the  silver  bowl  and  peeped  in. 

"It  is  bubbling." 

For  a  moment  he  was  busy  pouring  the  water  into 
the  teapot.  While  he  did  this  there  was  a  silence  between 
them.  Lady  Holme  got  up  from  the  sofa  and  walked 
about  the  room.  When  she  came  to  the  "Danseuse  de 
Tunisie"  she  stopped  in  front  of  it. 

"How  strange  that  fan  is,"  she  said, 

Robin  shut  the  lid  of  the  teapot  and  came  over  to  her. 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"The  fan?" 

"The  whole  thing?" 

"It's  lovely,  but  I  fancy  it  would  have  been  lovelier 
without  the  fan." 

176 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Why?" 

She  considered,  holding  her  head  slightly  on  one  side 
and  half  closing  her  eyes. 

"The  woman's  of  eternity,  but  the  fan's  of  a  day,"  she 
said  presently.  "It  belittles  her,  I  think.  It  makes  her 
(hie  when  she  might  have  been — " 

She  stopped. 

"Throw  away  your  fan!"  he  said  in  a  low,  eager  voice. 

"I?" 

"Yes.  Be  the  woman,  the  eternal  woman.  You've 
never  been  her  yet,  but  you  could  be.  Now  is  the  mo- 
ment.   You're  unhappy." 

"No,"  she  said  sharply. 

"Yes,  you  are.  Viola,  don't  imagine  I  can't  under- 
stand. You  care  for  him  and  he's  hurting  you — hurting 
you  by  being  just  himself,  all  he  can  ever  be.  It's  the  fan 
he  cares  for." 

"And  you  tell  me  to  throw  it  away!" 

She  spoke  with  sudden  passion.  They  stood  still  for  a 
moment  in  front  of  the  statuette,  looking  at  each  other 
silently.  Then  Robin  said,  with  a  sort  of  bitter  sur- 
prise,— 

"But  you  can't  love  him  like  that!" 

"I  do." 

It  gave  her  an  odd,  sharp  pleasure  to  speak  the  truth 
to  him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  then?"  he  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

He  spoke  without  emotion,  accepting  the  situation. 

"To  do?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Come  and  sit  down.    I'll  tell  you." 

He  took  her  hand  and  led  her  back  to  the  sofa.  When 
she  had  sat  down,  he  poured  out  tea,  put  in  cream  and 
gave  it  to  her. 

"Nothing  to  eat,"  she  said. 

177 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

He  poured  out  his  tea  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  oppo- 
site to  her,  and  close  to  her. 

"May  I  dare  to  speak  frankly?"  he  asked.  "I've 
known  you  so  long,  and  I've — I've  loved  you  very  much, 
and  I  still  do." 

"Go  on!"  she  answered. 

"You  thought  your  beauty  was  everything,  that  so 
long  as  it  lasted  you  were  safe  from  unhappiness.  Well, 
to-day  you  are  beautiful,  and  yet — " 

"But  what  does  he  care  for?"  she  said.  "What  do 
men  care  for?  You  pretend  that  it's  something  romantic, 
something  good  even.  Really,  it's  impudent — just  that — 
cold  and  impudent.  You're  a  fool,  Robin,  you're  a 
fool!" 

"Am  I?  Thank  God  there  are  men — and  men.  You 
can't  be  what  Carey  said." 

For  once  he  had  spoken  incautiously.  He  had  blurted 
out  something  he  never  meant  to  say. 

"Mr  Carey!"  she  exclaimed  quickly,  curiously.  "What 
did  Mr  Carey  say  I  was?" 

"Oh—" 

"No,  Robin,  you  are  to  tell  me.    No  diplomatic  lies." 

A  sudden,  almost  brutal  desire  came  into  him  to  tell 
her  the  truth,  to  revel  in  plain  speaking  for  once,  and 
to  see  how  she  would  bear  it. 

"He  said  you  were  an  egoist,  that  you  were  fine  enough 
in  your  brilliant  selfishness  to  stand  quite  alone — " 

A  faint  smile  moved  the  narrow  corners  of  her  lips  at 
the  last  words.    He  went  on. 

" — That  your  idea  of  a  real  man,  the  sort  of  man  a 
woman  loses  her  head  for,  was — " 

He  stopped.  Carey's  description  of  the  Lord  Holme 
and  Leo  Ulford  type  had  not  been  very  delicate. 

"Was — ?"  she  said,  with  insistence.    "Was — ?" 

Robin  thought  how  she  had  hurt  him,  and  said, — 

178 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

"Carey  said,  a  huge  mass  of  bones,  muscles,  thews, 
sinews,  that  cares  nothing  for  beauty." 

"Beauty!    That  doesn't  care  for  beauty!    But  then — ?" 

"Carey  meant — yes,  I'm  sure  Carey  meant  real 
beauty." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'real  beauty?'  " 

"An  inner  light  that  radiates  outward,  but  whose 
abiding-place  is  hidden — perhaps.  But  one  can't  say. 
One  can  only  understand  and  love." 

"Oh!  And  Mr  Carey  said  that?  Was  he — was  he  at 
all  that  evening  as  he  was  at  Arkell  House?  Was  he 
talking  nonsense  or  was  he  serious?" 

"Difficult  to  say!  But  he  was  not  as  he  was  at  Arkell 
House.    Which  knows  you  best — Carey  or  I?" 

"Neither  of  you.    I  don't  know  myself." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  only  thing  I  know  is  that  you 
can't  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"No,  I  can't." 

"But  perhaps  I  can  tell  you." 

She  put  down  her  cup  and  looked  at  him  with  a  sort 
of  grave  kindness  that  he  had  never  seen  in  her  face 
before. 

"What  to  do?" 

"Yes." 

"Well?" 

"Give  up  loving  the  white  angel.  Perhaps  it  isn't 
there.  Perhaps  it  doesn't  exist.  And  if  it  does — perhaps 
it's  a  poor,  feeble  thing  that's  no  good  to  me — no  good 
to  me." 

Suddenly  she  put  her  arms  on  the  back  of  the  couch, 
leaned  her  face  on  them  and  began  to  cry  gently. 

Robin  was  terribly  startled.  He  got  up,  stretched  out 
his  hands  to  her  in  an  impulsive  gesture,  then  drew  them 
back,  turned  and  went  to  the  window. 

179 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

She  was  crying  for  Fritz, 

That  was  absurd  and  horrible.  Yet  he  knew  that 
those  tears  came  from  the  heart  of  the  hidden  woman 
he  had  so  long  beheved  in,  proved  her  existence,  showed 
that  she  could  love. 


s8o 


XII 

As  Lady  Holme  had  foreseen,  the  impertinent 
mimicry  of  Miss  Schley  concentrated  a  great 
deal  of  attention  upon  the  woman  mimicked. 
Many  people,  accepting  the  American's  cleverness  as  a 
fashionable  fact,  also  accepted  her  imitation  as  the  imita- 
tion of  a  fact  more  surreptitious,  and  credited  Lady 
Holme  with  a  secret  leaning  towards  the  improper  never 
before  suspected  by  them.  They  remembered  the  break 
between  the  Holmes  and  Carey,  the  strange  scene  at  the 
Arkell  House  ball,  and  began  to  whisper  many  things 
of  Lady  Holme,  and  to  turn  a  tide  of  pity  and  of  sympa- 
thy upon  her  husband.  On  this  tide  Lord  Holme  and  the 
American  might  be  said  to  float  merrily  like  corks,  un- 
abashed in  the  eye  of  the  sun.  Their  intimacy  was  con- 
doned on  all  sides  as  a  natural  result  of  Lady  Holme's 
conduct.  Most  of  that  which  had  been  accomplished  by 
Lord  and  Lady  Holme  together  after  their  reconciliation 
over  the  first  breakfast  was  undone.  The  silent  tongue 
began  to  wag,  and  to  murmur  the  usual  platitudes  about 
the  poor  fellow  who  could  not  find  sympathy  at  home 
and  so  was  obliged,  against  his  will,  to  seek  for  it  outside. 

All  this  Lady  Holme  had  foreseen  as  she  sat  in  her 
box  at  the  British  Theatre. 

The  wrong  impression  of  her  was  enthroned.  She  had 
to  reckon  with  it.  This  fact,  fully  recognised  by  her, 
made  her  wish  to  walk  warily  where  otherwise  her  temper 
might  have  led  her  to  walk  heedlessly.  She  wanted  to 
do  an  unusual  thing,  to  draw  her  husband's  attention  to 

i8i 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

an  intimacy  which  was  concealed  from  the  world — the 
intimacy  between  herself  and  Leo  Ulford. 

After  her  visit  to  the  house  in  Half  Moon  Street  she 
began  to  see  a  great  deal  of  Leo  Ulford.  Carey  had 
been  right  when  he  said  that  they  would  get  on  together. 
She  understood  him  easily  and  thoroughly,  and  for  that 
very  reason  he  was  attracted  by  her.  Men  delight  to  feel 
that  a  woman  is  understanding  them;  women  that  no 
man  can  ever  understand  them.  Under  the  subtle  influ- 
ence of  Lady  Holme's  complete  comprehension  of  him, 
Leo  Ulford's  nature  expanded,  stretched  itself  as  his 
long  legs  stretched  themselves  when  his  mind  was  pur- 
ring. There  was  not  much  in  him  to  reveal,  but  what 
there  was  he  revealed,  and  Lady  Holme  seemed  to  be 
profoundly  interested  in  the  contents  of  his  soul. 

But  she  was  not  interested  in  the  contents  of  his 
soul  in  public  places  on  which  the  world's  eye  is  fixed. 
She  refused  to  allow  Leo  to  do  what  he  desired,  and 
assume  an  air  of  almost  possessive  friendship  before 
Society.  His  natural  inclination  for  the  blatant  was  firmly 
checked  by  her.  She  cared  nothing  for  him  really,  but 
her  woman's  instinct  had  divined  that  he  was  the  type 
of  man  most  likely  to  rouse  the  slumbering  passion  of 
Fritz,  if  Fritz  were  led  to  suspect  that  she  was  attracted 
to  him.  Men  like  Lord  Holme  are  most  easily  jealous 
of  the  men  who  most  closely  resemble  them.  Their 
conceit  leads  them  to  put  an  exaggerated  value  upon 
their  own  qualities  in  others,  upon  the  resemblance  to 
their  own  physique  exhibited  by  others. 

Leo  Ulford  was  rather  like  a  younger  and  coarser 
Lord  Holme.  In  him  Lady  Holme  recognised  an  effec- 
tive weapon  for  the  chastisement,  if  not  for  the  eventual 
reclamation,  of  her  husband.  It  was  characteristic  of 
her  that  this  was  the  weapon  she  chose,  the  weapon  she 
still  continued  to  rely  on  even  after  her  conversation 

182 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

with  Robin  Pierce.  Her  faith  in  white  angels  was  very 
small.  Perpetual  contact  with  the  world  of  to-day,  with 
life  as  lived  by  women  of  her  order,  had  created  within 
her  far  other  faiths,  faiths  in  false  gods,  a  natural  inclina- 
tion to  bow  the  knee  in  the  house  of  Rimmon  rather  than 
before  the  altars  guarded  by  the  Eternities. 

And  then — she  knew  Lord  Holme;  knew  what  at^ 
tracted  him,  what  stirred  him,  what  moved  him  to  excite- 
ment, what  was  likely  to  hold  him.  She  felt  sure  that  he, 
and  such  men  as  he,  yield  the  homage  they  would  refuse 
to  the  angel  to  the  siren.  Instead  of  seeking  the  angel 
within  herself,  therefore,  she  sought  the  siren.  Instead 
of  striving  to  develop  that  part  of  her  which  was  spiritual, 
she  fixed  all  her  attention  upon  that  part  of  her  which 
was  fleshly,  which  was  physical.  She  neglected  the  flame 
and  began  to  make  pretty  patterns  with  the  ashes. 

Robin  came  to  bid  her  good-bye  before  leaving  Lon- 
don for  Rome.  The  weeping  woman  was  gone.  He 
looked  into  the  hard,  white  face  of  a  woman  who  smiled. 
They  talked  rather  constrainedly  for  a  few  minutes.  Then 
suddenly  he  said, — 

"Once  it  was  a  painted  window,  now  it's  an  iron 
shutter." 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  clasped  his  hands  to- 
gether behind  his  back. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  still  smiling. 

"Your  face,"  he  answered.  "One  could  see  you  ob- 
scurely before.    One  can  see  nothing  now." 

"You  talk  great  nonsense,  Robin.  It's  a  good  thing 
you're  going  back  to  Rome." 

"At  least  I  shall  find  the  spirit  of  beauty  there,"  he 
said,  almost  with  bitterness.  "Over  here  it  is  treated 
as  if  it  were  Jezebel.  It's  trodden  down.  It's  thrown 
to  the  dogs." 

"Poor  spirit!" 

183 


THE  WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

She  laughed  Hghtly. 

"Do  you  understand  what  they're  saying  of  you?"  he 
went  on. 

"Where?" 

"All  over  London." 

"Perhaps." 

"But— do  you?" 

"Perhaps  I  don't  care  to." 

"They're  saying — 'Poor  thing!  But  it's  her  own 
fault.' " 

There  was  a  silence.  In  it  he  looked  at  her  hard, 
mercilessly.    She  returned  his  gaze,  still  smiling. 

"And  it  is  your  own  fault,"  he  went  on  after  a  moment. 
"If  you  had  been  yourself  she  couldn't  have  insulted  you 
first  and  humiliated  you  afterwards.  Oh,  how  I  hate  it! 
And  yet — yet  there  are  moments  when  I  am  like  the 
others,  when  I  feel — 'She  has  deserved  it.' " 

"When  will  you  be  in  Rome?"  she  said. 

"And  even  now,"  he  continued,  ignoring  her  remark, 
"even  now,  what  are  you  doing?  Oh,  Viola,  you're  a 
prey  to  the  modern  madness  for  crawling  in  the  dirt 
instead  of  walking  upright  in  the  sun.  You  might  be  a 
goddess  and  you  prefer  to  be  an  insect.  Isn't  it  mad  of 
you?    Isn't  it?" 

He  was  really  excited,  really  passionate.  His  face 
showed  that.  There  was  fire  in  his  eyes.  His  lips 
worked  convulsively  when  he  was  not  speaking.  And 
yet  there  was  just  a  faint  ring  of  the  accomplished 
orator's  music  in  his  voice,  a  music  which  suggests  a 
listening  ear — and  that  ear  the  orator's  own. 

Perhaps  she  heard  it.  At  any  rate  his  passionate  attack 
did  not  seem  to  move  her. 

"I  prefer  to  be  what  I  am,"  was  all  she  said. 

"What  you  are!    But  you  don't  know  what  yoi;  are." 

"And  how  can  you  pretend  to  know?"  she  asked.    "Is 

184 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

a  man  more  subtle  about  a  woman  than  she  is  about 
herself?" 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said 
bluntly, — 

"Promise  me  one  thing  before  I  go  away." 

"I  don't  know.    What  is  it?" 

"Promise  me  not  to — not  to — " 

He  hesitated.  The  calm  of  her  face  seemed  almost  to 
confuse  him. 

"Well?"  she  said.     "Go  on." 

"Promise  me  not  to  justify  anything  people  are  saying, 
not  to  justify  it  with — with  that  fellow  Ulford." 

"Good-bye,"  she  answered,  holding  out  her  hand. 

He  recognised  that  the  time  for  his  advice  had  gone 
by,  if  it  had  ever  been. 

"What  a  way — what  a  way  for  us  to — "  he  almost 
stammered. 

He  recovered  his  self-possession  with  an  effort  and 
took  her  hand. 

"At  least,"  he  said  in  a  low,  quiet  voice,  "believe  it  is 
less  jealousy  that  speaks  within  me  than  love — love  for 
you,  for  the  woman  you  are  trampling  in  the  dust." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  and  went  out.  She  did  not 
see  him  again  before  he  left  England,  And  she  was 
glad.  She  did  not  want  to  see  him.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  first  time  in  her  life  that  the  affection  of  a  man 
whom  she  really  liked  was  distasteful  to  her.  It  made 
her  uneasy,  doubtful  of  herself  just  then,  to  be  loved  as 
Robin  loved  her. 

Carey  had  come  back  to  town,  but  he  went  nowhere. 
He  was  in  bad  odour.  Sir  Donald  Ulford  was  almost 
the  only  person  he  saw  anything  of  at  this  time.  It 
seemed  that  Sir  Donald  had  taken  a  fancy  to  Carey.  At 
any  rate,  such  friendly  feeling  as  he  had  did  not  seem 
lessened  after  Carey's  exhibition  at  Arkell  House.    When 

185 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE   FAN 

Carey  returned  to  Stratton  Street,  Sir  Donald  paid  him 
a  visit  and  stayed  some  time.  No  allusion  was  made 
to  the  painful  circumstances  under  which  they  had  last 
seen  each  other  until  Sir  Donald  was  on  the  point  of 
going  away.    Then  he  said, — 

"You  have  not  forgotten  that  I  expect  you  at  Casa 
Felice  towards  the  end  of  August?" 

Carey  looked  violently  astonished. 

"Still?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

Suddenly  Carey  shot  out  his  hand  and  grasped  Sir 
Donald's. 

"You  aren't  afraid  to  have  a  drunken  beast  like  me 
in  Casa  Felice!    It's  a  damned  dangerous  experiment." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"It's  your  own  lookout,  you  know.  I  absolve  you 
from  the  invitation." 

"I  repeat  it  then." 

"I  accept  it  then — again." 

Sir  Donald  went  away  thoughtfully.  When  he  reached 
the  Albany  he  found  Mrs  Leo  Ulford  waiting  for  him  in 
tears.    They  had  a  long  interview. 

Many  people  fancied  that  Sir  Donald  looked  more 
ghostly,  more  faded  even  than  usual  as  the  season  wore 
on.  They  said  he  was  getting  too  old  to  go  about  so 
much  as  he  did,  and  that  it  was  a  pity  Society  "got  such 
a  hold"  on  men  who  ought  to  have  had  enough  of  it  long 
ago.  One  night  he  met  Lady  Holme  at  the  Opera.  She 
was  in  her  box  and  he  in  the  stalls.  After  the  second 
act  she  called  him  to  her  with  a  gay  little  nod  of  invita- 
tion. Lady  Cardington  had  been  with  her  during  the  act, 
but  left  the  box  when  the  curtain  fell  to  see  some  friends 
close  by.  When  Sir  Donald  tapped  at  the  door  Lady 
Holme  was  quite  alone.  He  came  in  quietly — even  his 
walk  was  rather  ghostly — and  sat  down  beside  her. 

i86 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"You  don't  look  well,"  she  said  after  they  had  greeted 
each  other. 

"I  am  quite  well,"  he  answered,  with  evident  constraint. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  to  speak  to  since  that  little  note 
of  yours." 

A  very  faint  colour  rose  in  his  faded  cheeks. 

"After  Miss  Schley's  first  night  ?"  he  murmured. 

His  yellow  fingers  moved  restlessly. 

"Do  you  know  that  your  son  told  me  you  would 
write?"  she  continued. 

She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  half  hidden  by  the 
curtain  of  the  box. 

"Leo!" 

Sir  Donald's  voice  was  almost  sharp  and  startling. 

"How  should  he — you  spoke  about  me  then?" 

There  was  a  flash  of  light  in  his  pale,  almost  colour- 
less eyes. 

"I  wondered  where  you  had  gone,  and  he  said  you 
would  write  next  day." 

"That  was  all?" 

"Why,  how  suspicious  you  are!" 

She  spoke  banteringly. 

"Suspicious!  No — but  Leo  does  not  understand  me 
very  well.  I  was  rather  old  when  he  was  born,  and  I 
have  never  been  able  to  be  much  with  him.  He  was  edu- 
cated in  England,  and  my  duties  of  course  lay  abroad." 

He  paused,  looking  at  her  and  moving  his  thin  white 
moustache.    Then,  in  an  uneasy  voice,  he  added, — 

"You  must  not  take  my  character  altogether  from 
Leo." 

"Nor  you  mine  altogether  from  Miss  Schley,"  said 
Lady  Holme. 

She  scarcely  knew  why  she  said  it.  She  thought  her- 
self stupid,  ridiculous  almost  for  saying  it.  Yet  she  could 
not  help  speaking.     Perhaps  she  relied  on  Sir  Donald's 

187 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

age.  Or  perhaps — but  who  knows  why  a  woman  is 
cautious  or  incautious  in  moments  the  least  expected? 
God  guides  her,  perhaps,  or  the  devil — or  merely  a  bottle 
imp.  Men  never  know,  and  that  is  why  they  find  her 
adorable. 

Sir  Donald  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  only  made 
the  familiar  movement  with  his  hands  that  was  a  sign 
in  him  of  concealed  excitement  or  emotion.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  ledge  of  the  box.  Lady  Holme  was 
puzzled  by  his  silence  and,  at  last,  was  on  the  point  of 
making  a  remark  on  some  other  subject — Plan(;on's 
singing — when  he  spoke,  like  a  man  who  had  made  up 
his  mind  firmly  to  take  an  unusual,  perhaps  a  difficult 
course. 

"I  wish  to  take  it  from  you,"  he  said.  "Give  me  the 
right  one,  not  an  imitation  of  an  imitation." 

She  knew  at  once  what  he  meant  and  was  surprised. 
Had  Leo  Ulford  been  talking? 

"Lady  Holme,"  he  went  on,  "I  am  taking  a  liberty. 
I  know  that.  It's  a  thing  I  have  never  done  before, 
knowingly.  Don't  think  me  unconscious  of  what  I  am 
doing.  But  I  am  an  old  man,  and  old  men  can  some- 
times venture — allowance  is  sometimes  made  for  them. 
I  want  to  claim  that  allowance  now  for  what  I  am  going 
to  say." 

"Well?"  she  said,  neither  hardly  nor  gently. 

In  truth  she  scarcely  knew  whether  she  wished  him 
to  speak  or  not. 

"My  son  is — Leo  is  not  a  safe  friend  for  you  at  this 
moment." 

Again  the  dull,  brick-red  flush  rose  in  his  cheeks. 
There  was  an  odd,  flattened  look  just  above  his  cheek- 
bones near  his  eyes,  and  the  eyes  themselves  had  a 
strange  expression  as  of  determination  and  guilt  mingled. 

"Your  son?"  Lady  Holme  said.    "But—" 

i88 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"I  do  not  wish  to  assume  anything,  but  I — well,  my 
daughter-in-law  sometimes  comes  to  me." 

"Sometimes!"  said  Lady  Holme. 

"Leo  is  not  a  good  husband,"  Sir  Donald  said.  "But 
that  is  not  the  point.    He  is  also  a  bad — friend." 

"Why  don't  you  say  lover?"  she  almost  whispered. 

He  grasped  his  knee  with  one  hand  and  moved  the 
hand  rapidly  to  and  fro. 

"I  must  say  of  him  to  you  that  where  his  pleasure 
or  his  vanity  is  concerned  he  is  unscrupulous." 

"Why  say  all  this  to  a  woman?" 

"You  mean  that  you  know  as  much  as  I  ?" 

"Don't  you  think  it  likely?" 

"Henrietta—" 

"Who  is  that?" 

"My  daughter-in-law  has  done  everything  for  Leo 
— too  much.  She  gets  nothing — not  even  gratitude.  I 
am  sorry  to  say  he  has  no  sense  of  chivalry  towards 
women.  You  know  him,  I  daresay.  But  do  you  know 
him  thwarted?" 

"Ah,  you  don't  think  so  badly  of  me  after  all?"  she 
said  quickly. 

"I— think  of  you  that— that— " 

He  stopped. 

"I  think  that  I  could  not  bear  to  see  the  white- 
ness of  your  wings  smirched  by  a  child  of  mine,"  he 
added. 

"You  too!"  she  said. 

Suddenly  tears  started  into  her  eyes. 

"Another  believer  in  the  angel!"  she  thought. 

"May  I  come  in?" 

It  was  Mr  Bry's  cold  voice.  His  discontented,  sleek 
face  was  peeping  round  the  door. 

Sir  Donald  got  up  to  go. 

As   Lady  Holme  drove  away  from   Covent   Garden 

189 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

that  night  she  was  haunted  by  a  feverish,  embittering 
thought, — 

"Will  everyone  notice  it  but  Fritz?" 

Lord  Holme  indeed  seemed  scarcely  the  same  man 
who  had  forbidden  Carey  to  come  any  more  to  his 
house,  who  had  been  jealous  of  Robin  Pierce,  who  had 
even  once  said  that  he  almost  wished  his  wife  were  an 
ugly  woman.  The  Grand  Turk  nature  within  him,  if 
not  actually  dead,  was  certainly  in  abeyance.  He  was 
so  intfent  on  his  own  affairs  that  he  paid  no  heed  at  all 
to  his  wife's,  even  when  they  might  be  said  to  be  also 
his.  Leo  Ulford  was  becoming  difficult  to  manage,  and 
Lord  Holme  still  gaily  went  his  way.  As  Lady  Holme 
thought  over  Sir  Donald's  words  she  felt  a  crushing 
weight  of  depression  sink  down  upon  her.  The  brougham 
rolled  smoothly  on  through  the  lighted  streets.  She  did 
not  glance  out  of  the  windows,  or  notice  the  passing 
crowds.  In  the  silence  and  darkness  of  her  own  soul  she 
was  trying  not  to  feel,  trying  to  think. 

A  longing  to  be  incautious,  to  do  something  startling, 
desperate,  came  to  her. 

It  was  evident  that  Mrs  Ulford  had  been  complain- 
ing to  Sir  Donald  about  his  son's  conduct.  With  whom? 
Lady  Holme  could  not  doubt  that  it  was  with  herself. 
She  had  read,  with  one  glance  at  the  fluttering  pink  eye- 
lids, the  story  of  the  Leo  Ulford  menage.  Now,  she 
was  not  preoccupied  with  any  regret  for  her  own  cruelty 
or  for  another  woman's  misery.  The  egoism  spoken  of 
by  Carey  was  not  dead  in  her  yet,  but  very  much  alive. 
As  she  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  brougham,  pressing  her- 
self against  the  padded  wall,  she  was  angry  for  herself, 
pitiful  for  herself.  And  she  was  jealous — horribly  jealous. 
That  woke  up  her  imagination,  all  the  intensity  of  her. 
Where  was  Fritz  to-night?  She  did  not  know.  Suddenly 
the  dense  ignorance  in  which  every  human  being  lives, 

190 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

and  must  live  to  the  end  of  time,  towered  above  her  like 
a  figure  in  a  nightmare.  What  do  we  know,  what  can 
we  ever  know  of  each  other?  In  each  human  being 
dwells  the  most  terrible,  the  most  ruthless  power  that 
exists — the  power  of  silence. 

Fritz  had  that  power;  stupid,  blundering,  self-con- 
tented Fritz. 

She  pulled  the  check-string  and  gave  the  order, 
"Home!" 

In  her  present  condition  she  felt  unable  to  go  into 
Society. 

When  she  got  to  Cadogan  Square  she  said  to  the  foot- 
man who  opened  the  door, — 

"His  lordship  isn't  in  yet?" 

"No,  my  lady." 

"Did  he  say  what  time  he  would  be  in  to-night?" 

"No,  my  lady." 

The  man  paused,  then  added, — 

"His  lordship  told  Mr  Lucas  not  to  wait  up." 

"Mr  Lucas"  was  Lord  Holme's  valet. 

It  seemed  to  Lady  Holme  as  if  there  were  a  significant, 
even  a  slightly  mocking,  sound  in  the  footman's  voice. 
She  stared  at  him.  He  was  a  thin,  swarthy  young  man, 
with  lantern  jaws  and  a  very  long,  pale  chin.  When  she 
looked  at  him  he  dropped  his  eyes. 

"Bring  me  some  lemonade  to  the  drawing-room  in 
ten  minutes,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"In  ten  minutes,  not  before.  Turn  on  all  the  lights  in 
the  drawing-room." 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

The  man  went  before  her  up  the  staircase,  turned  on 
the  lights,  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass  and  then  went  softly 
down.    Lady  Holme  rang  for  Josephine. 

"Take  my  cloak  and  then  go  to  bed,"  she  said. 
191 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Josephine  took  the  cloak  and  went  out,  shutting  the 
door. 

"Ten  minutes !"  Lady  Holme  said  to  herself. 

She  sat  down  on  the  sofa  on  which  she  had  sat  for 
a  moment  alone  after  her  song  at  the  dinner-party,  the 
song  murdered  by  Miss  Filberte.  The  empty,  brilliantly- 
lit  rooms  seemed  unusually  large.  She  glanced  round 
them  with  inward-looking  eyes.  Here  she  was  at  mid- 
night sitting  quite  alone  in  her  own  house.  And  she 
wished  to  do  something  decisive,  startling  as  the  cannon 
shot  sometimes  fired  from  a  ship  to  disperse  a  fog 
wreath.  That  was  the  reason  why  she  had  told  the  foot- 
man to  come  in  ten  minutes.  She  thought  that  in  ten 
minutes  she  might  make  up  her  mind.  If  she  decided 
upon  doing  something  that  required  an  emissary  the  man 
would  be  there. 

She  looked  at  the  little  silver  box  she  had  taken  up 
that  night  when  she  was  angry,  then  at  the  grand  piano 
in  the  further  room.  The  two  things  suggested  to  her 
two  women — the  woman  of  hot  temper  and  the  woman 
of  sweetness  and  romance.  What  was  she  to-night,  and 
what  was  she  going  to  do?  Nothing  probably.  What 
could  she  do?  Again  she  glanced  round  the  rooms.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  like  an  actress  in  an  intense, 
passionate  role,  who  is  paralysed  by  what  is  called  in  the 
theatre  "a  stage  wait."  She  ought  to  play  a  tremendous 
scene,  now,  at  once,  but  the  person  with  whom  she  was 
to  play  it  did  not  come  on  to  the  stage.  She  had  worked 
herself  up  for  the  scene.  The  emotion,  the  passion,  the 
force,  the  fury  were  alive,  were  red  hot  within  her,  and 
she  could  not  set  them  free.  She  remained  alone  upon  the 
stage  in  a  sort  of  horror  of  dumbness,  a  horror  of  inaction. 

The  footman  came  in  quietly  with  the  lemonade  on  a 
tray.    He  put  it  down  on  a  table  by  Lady  Holme. 

"Is  there  anything  else,  my  lady?" 

192 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

She  supposed  that  the  question  was  meant  as  a  very 
discreet  hint  to  her  that  the  man  would  be  glad  to  go 
to  bed.  For  a  moment  she  did  not  reply,  but  kept  him 
waiting.  She  was  thinking  rapidly,  considering  whether 
she  would  do  the  desperate  thing  or  not,  whether  she 
would  summon  one  of  the  actors  for  the  violent  scene 
her  nature  demanded  persistently  that  night. 

After  the  opera  she  had  been  due  at  a  ball  to  which 
Leo  Ulford  was  going.  She  had  promised  to  go  in  to 
supper  with  him  and  to  arrive  by  a  certain  hour.  He 
was  wondering,  waiting,  now,  at  this  moment.  She  knew 
that.  The  house  was  in  Eaton  Square,  not  far  ofif. 
Should  she  send  the  footman  with  a  note  to  Leo,  saying 
that  she  was  too  tired  to  come  to  the  ball,  but  that  she 
was  sitting  up  at  home  ?  That  was  what  she  was  rapidly 
considering  while  the  footman  stood  waiting.  Leo  would 
come,  and  then — presently — Lord  Holme  would  come. 
And  then?  Then  doubtless  would  happen  the  scene  she 
longed  for,  longed  for  with  a  sort  of  almost  crazy  desire 
such  as  she  had  never  felt  before. 

She  glanced  up  and  saw  an  astonished  expression  upon 
the  footman's  pale  face.  How  long  had  she  kept  him 
there  waiting?    She  had  no  idea. 

"There  is  nothing  else,"  she  said  slowly. 

She  paused,  then  added,  reluctantly, — 

"You  can  go  to  bed." 

The  man  went  softly  out  of  the  room.  As  he  shut  the 
door  she  breathed  a  deep  sigh,  that  was  almost  a  sob.  So 
difficult  had  she  found  it  to  govern  herself,  not  to  do  the 
crazy  thing. 

She  poured  out  the  lemonade  and  put  ice  into  it.  As 
she  did  so  she  made  grimaces,  absurd  grimaces  of  pain 
and  misery,  like  those  on  the  faces  of  the  two  women 
in  Mantegna's  picture  of  Christ  and  the  Marys  in  the 
Brera  at  Milan.     They  are  grotesque,  yet  wonderfully 

193 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

moving  in  their  pitiless  realism.  But  tears  fall  from  the 
eyes  of  Mantegna's  women  and  no  tears  fell  from  Lady 
Holme's  eyes.  Still  making  grimaces  she  sipped  the 
lemonade.  Then  she  put  down  the  glass,  leaned  back 
on  the  sofa  and  shut  her  eyes.  Her  face  ceased  to  move, 
and  became  beautiful  again  in  its  stillness.  She  remained 
motionless  for  a  long  time,  trying  to  obtain  the  mastery 
over  herself.  In  act  she  had  obtained  it  already,  but  not 
in  emotion.  Indeed,  the  relinquishing  of  violence,  the 
sending  of  the  footman  to  bed,  seemed  to  have  increased 
the  passion  within  her.  And  now  she  felt  it  rising  till 
she  was  afraid  of  being  herself,  afraid  of  being  this  soli- 
tary woman,  feeling  intensely  and  able  to  do  nothing. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  if  such  a  passion  of  jealousy,  and 
desire  for  immediate  expression  of  it  in  action,  as  flamed 
within  her,  must  wreak  disaster  upon  her  like  some  fell 
disease,  as  if  she  were  in  immediate  danger,  even  in 
immediate  physical  danger.  She  lay  still  like  one  deter- 
mined to  meet  it  bravely,  without  flinching,  without  a 
sign  of  cowardice. 

But  suddenly  she  felt  that  she  had  made  a  mistake  in 
dismissing  the  footman,  that  the  pain  of  inaction  was 
too  great  for  her  to  bear.  She  could  not  just — do  noth- 
ing. She  could  not,  and  she  got  up  swiftly  and  rang  the 
bell.  The  man  did  not  return.  She  pressed  the  bell 
again.  After  three  or  four  minutes  he  came  in,  looking 
rather  flushed  and  put  out. 

"I  want  you  to  take  a  note  to  Eaton  Square,"  she  said. 
"It  will  be  ready  in  five  minutes." 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

She  went  to  her  writing-table  and  wrote  this  note  to 
Leo  Ulford: — 

"Dear  Mr  Ulford, — I  am  grieved  to  play  you  false, 
but  I  am  too  tired  to-night  to  come  on.     Probably  you 

194 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE   FAN 

are  amusing  yourself,  I  am  sitting  here  alone  over  such 
a  dull  book.  One  can't  go  to  bed  at  twelve  somehow, 
even  if  one  is  tired.  The  habit  of  the  season's  against 
early  hours  and  one  couldn't  sleep.  Be  nice  and  come 
in  for  five  minutes  on  your  way  home,  and  tell  me  all 
about  it.  I  know  you  pass  the  end  of  the  square,  so  it 
won't  be  out  of  your  way. — Yours  very  sincerely, 

"V.  H." 

After  writing  this  note  Lady  Holme  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  then  she  went  to  a  writing-table,  opened  a 
drawer  and  took  out  a  tiny,  fiat  key.  She  enclosed  it 
in  two  sheets  of  thick  notepaper,  folded  the  note  also 
round  it,  and  put  it  into  an  envelope  which  she  carefully 
closed.  After  writing  Leo  Ulford's  name  on  the  envelope 
she  rang  again  for  the  footman. 

"Take  this  to  Eaton  Square,"  she  said,  naming  the 
number  of  the  house.  "And  give  it  to  Mr  Ulford  your- 
self. Go  in  a  hansom.  When  you  have  given  Mr  Ulford 
the  note  come  straight  back  in  the  hansom  and  let  me 
know.  After  that  you  can  go  to  bed.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

The  man  went  out. 

Lady  Holme  stood  up  to  give  him  the  note.  She 
remained  standing  after  he  had  gone.  An  extraordinary 
sensation  of  relief  had  come  to  her.  Action  had  lessened 
her  pain,  had  removed  much  of  the  pressure  of  emotion 
upon  her  heart.    For  a  moment  she  felt  alrnost  happy. 

She  sat  down  again  and  took  up  a  book.  It  was  a 
book  of  poems  written  by  a  very  young  girl  whom  she 
knew.  There  was  a  great  deal  about  sorrow  in  the 
poems,  and  sorrow  was  always  alluded  to  as  a  person; 
now  flitting  through  a  forest  in  the  autumn  among  the 
dying  leaves,  now  bending  over  a  bed,  now  walking  by 

195 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

the  sea  at  sunset  watching  departing  ships,  now  stand- 
ing near  the  altar  at  a  wedding.  The  poems  were  not 
good.  On  the  other  hand,  they  were  not  very  bad.  They 
had  some  grace,  some  dehcacy  here  and  there,  now  and 
then  a  touch  of  real,  if  by  no  means  exquisite,  sentiment. 
At  this  moment  Lady  Holme  found  them  soothing. 
There  was  a  certain  music  in  them  and  very  little  reality. 
They  seemed  to  represent  life  as  a  pensive  phantasma- 
goria of  bird  songs,  fading  flowers,  dying  lights,  soft 
winds  and  rains  and  sighing  echoes. 

She  read  on  and  on.  Sometimes  a  hard  thought  in- 
truded itself  upon  her  mind — the  thought  of  Leo  Ulford 
with  the  latch-key  of  her  husband's  house  in  his  hand. 
That  thought  made  the  poems  seem  to  her  remarkably 
unlike  life. 

She  looked  at  the  clock.  The  footman  had  been  away 
long  enough  to  do  his  errand.  Just  as  she  was  thinking 
this  he  came  into  the  room. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"I  gave  Mr  Ulford  the  note,  my  lady." 

"Then  you  can  go  to  bed.  Good-night.  I'll  put  out 
the  lights  here." 

"Thank  you,  my  lady." 

As  he  went  away  she  turned  again  to  the  poems,  but 
now  she  could  not  read  them.  Her  eyes  rested  upon 
them,  but  her  mind  took  in  nothing  of  their  meaning. 
Presently — very  soon — she  laid  the  book  down  and  sat 
listening.  The  footman  had  shut  the  drawing-room  door. 
She  got  up  and  opened  it.  She  wanted  to  hear  the  sound 
of  the  latch-key  being  put  into  the  front  door  by  Leo 
Ulford.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  that  sound  would  be  like 
the  kit  motif  of  her  determination  to  govern,  to  take  her 
own  way,  to  strike  a  blow  against  the  selfish  egoism  of 
men.  After  opening  the  door  she  sat  down  close  to  it 
and  waited,  listening. 

196 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

Some  minutes  passed.  Then  she  heard — not  the  key 
put  into  the  hall  door;  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  that 
she  was  much  too  far  away  to  hear  that — but  the  bang 
of  the  door  being  shut. 

Quickly  she  closed  the  drawing-room  door,  went  back 
to  the  distant  sofa,  sat  down  upon  it  and  began  to  turn 
over  the  poems  once  more.  She  even  read  one  quite 
carefully.    As  she  finished  it  the  door  was  opened. 

She  looked  up  gaily  to  greet  Leo  and  saw  her  husband 
coming  into  the  room. 

She  was  greatly  startled.  It  had  never  occurred  to 
her  that  Fritz  was  quite  as  likely  to  arrive  before  Leo 
Ulford  as  Leo  Ulford  to  arrive  before  Fritz.  Why  had 
she  never  thought  of  so  obvious  a  possibility?  She 
could  not  imagine.  The  difiference  between  the  actuality 
and  her  intense  and  angry  conception  of  what  it  would 
be,  benumbed  her  mind  for  an  instant.  She  was  com- 
pletely confused.  She  sat  still  with  the  book  of  poems 
on  her  lap,  and  gazed  at  Lord  Holme  as  he  came  towards 
her.  taking  long  steps  and  straddling  his  legs  as  if  he 
imagined  he  had  a  horse  under  him.  The  gay  expression 
had  abruptly  died  away  from  her  face  and  she  looked 
almost  stupid. 

"Hulloa!"  said  Lord  Holme,  as  he  saw  her. 

She  said  nothing. 

'Thought  you  were  goin'  to  the  Blaxtons  to-night/* 
he  added. 

She  made  a  strong  eflfort  and  smiled. 

"I  meant  to,  but  I  felt  tired  after  the  opera." 

"Why  don't  you  toddle  off  to  bed  then?" 

"I  feel  tired,  I  don't  feel  sleepy." 

Lord  Holme  stared  at  her,  put  his  hand  into  his 
trousers'  pocket  and  pulled  out  his  cigarette-case.  Lady 
Holme  knew  that  he  had  been  in  a  good  humour  when 
he  came  home,  and  that  the  sight  of  her  sitting  up  in 

197 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

the  drawing-room  had  displeased  him.  She  had  seen 
a  change  come  into  his  face.  He  had  been  looking  gay. 
He  began  to  look  glum  and  turned  his  eyes  away  from  her. 

"What  have  you  been  up  to?"  she  asked,  with  a  sudden 
light  gaiety  and  air  of  comradeship. 

"Club — ^playin'  bridge,"  he  answered,  lighting  a  ciga- 
rette. 

He  shot  a  glance  at  her  sideways  as  he  spoke,  a 
glance  that  was  meant  to  be  crafty.  If  she  had  not  been 
excited  and  horribly  jealous,  such  a  glance  would  prob- 
ably have  amused  her,  even  made  her  laugh.  Fritz's 
craft  was  very  transparent.  But  she  could  not  laugh 
now.  She  knew  he  was  telling  her  the  first  lie  that  had 
occurred  to  him. 

"Lucky?"  she  asked,  still  preserving  her  light  and 
casual  manner. 

"Middlin',"  he  jerked  out. 

He  sat  down  in  an  armchair  and  slowly  stretched  his 
legs,  staring  up  at  the  ceiling.  Lady  Holme  began  to 
think  rapidly,  feverishly. 

Had  he  locked  the  front  door  when  he  came  in?  Very 
much  depended  upon  whether  he  had  or  had  not.  The 
servants  had  all  gone  to  bed.  Not  one  of  them  would 
see  that  the  house  was  closed  for  the  night.  Fritz  was  a 
very  casual  person.  He  often  forgot  to  do  things  he  had 
promised  to  do,  things  that  ought  to  be  done.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  were  moments  when  his  memory  was 
excellent.  If  she  only  knew  which  mood  had  been  his 
to-night  she  thought  she  would  feel  calmer.  The  un- 
certainty in  which  she  was  made  mind  and  body  tingle. 
If  Fritz  had  remembered  to  lock  the  door,  Leo  Ulford 
would  try  to  get  in,  fail,  and  go  away.  But  if  he  had  not 
remembered,  at  any  moment  Leo  Ulford  might  walk  into 
the  room  triumphantly  with  the  latch-key  in  his  hand. 
And  it  was  nearly  half-past  twelve. 

198 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

She  wished  intensely  that  she  knew  what  Fritz  had 
done. 

"What's  up?"  he  said  abruptly. 

"Up?"  she  said  with  an  uncontrollable  start. 

"Yes,  with  you?" 

"Nothing.    What  d'you  mean?" 

"Why,  you  look  as  if — don't  you  b'lieve  I've  been 
playin'  bridge?" 

"Of  course  I  do.    Really,  Fritz,  how  absurd  you  are!" 

It  was  evident  that  he,  too,  was  not  quite  easy  to- 
night. If  he  had  a  conscience,  surely  it  was  pricking 
him.  Fierce  anger  flamed  up  again  suddenly  in  Lady 
Holme  and  the  longing  to  lash  her  husband.  Yet  even 
this  anger  did  not  take  away  the  anxiety  that  beset  her, 
the  wish  that  she  had  not  done  the  crazy  thing.  The 
fact  of  her  husband's  return  before  Leo's  arrival  seemed 
to  have  altered  her  action,  made  it  far  more  damning. 
To  have  been  found  with  Leo  would  have  been  compro- 
mising, would  have  roused  Fritz's  anger.  She  wanted  to 
rouse  his  anger.  She  had  meant  to  rouse  it.  But  when 
she  looked  at  Fritz  she  did  not  like  the  thought  of  Leo 
walking  in  at  this  hour  holding  the  latch-key  in  his  hand. 
What  had  Fritz  done  that  night  to  Rupert  Carey  ?  What 
would  he  do  to-night  if — ? 

"What  the  deuce  is  up  with  you?" 

Lord  Holme  drew  in  his  legs,  sat  up  and  stared  with  a 
sort  of  uneasy  inquiry  which  he  tried  to  make  hard.  She 
laughed  quickly,  nervously. 

"I'm  tired,  I  tell  you.    It  was  awfully  hot  at  the  opera." 

She  put  some  more  ice  into  the  lemonade,  and  added, — 

"By  the  way,  Fritz,  I  suppose  you  locked  up  all 
right?" 

"Locked  up  what?" 

"The  front  door.  All  the  servants  have  gone  to  bed, 
you  know." 

.199 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

No  sooner  had  she  spoken  the  last  words  than  she 
regretted  them.  If  Leo  did  get  in  they  took  away  all 
excuse.  She  might  have  pretended  he  had  been  let  in. 
He  would  have  had  to  back  her  up.  It  would  have  been 
mean  of  her,  of  course.  Still,  seeing  her  husband  there, 
Leo  would  have  understood,  would  have  forgiven  her. 
Women  are  always  forgiven  such  subterfuges  in  unfor- 
tunate moments.    What  a  fool  she  was  to-night! 

"That  don't  matter,"  said  her  husband,  shortly. 

"But — but  it  does.  You  know  how  many  burglaries 
there  are.  Why,  only  the  other  night  Mrs  Arthur  came 
home  from  a  ball  and  met  two  men  on  the  stairs." 

"I  pity  any  men  I  found  on  my  stairs,"  he  returned 
composedly,  touching  the  muscle  of  his  left  arm  with 
his  right  hand. 

He  chuckled. 

"They'd  be  sorry  for  themselves,  I'll  bet,"  he  added. 

He  put  down  his  cigarette  and  took  out  another, 
slowly,  leisurely.  Lady  Holme  longed  to  strike  him. 
His  conceited  composure  added  fuel  to  the  flame  of  her 
anxiety. 

"Well,  anyhow,  I  don't  care  to  run  these  risks  in  a 
place  like  London,  Fritz,"  she  said  almost  angrily.  "Have 
you  locked  up  or  not  ?" 

"Damned  if  I  remember,"  he  drawled. 

She  did  not  know  whether  he  was  deliberately  trying 
to  irritate  her  or  whether  he  really  had  forgotten,  but 
she  felt  it  impossible  to  remain  any  longer  in  uncertainty. 

"Very  well,  then,  I  shall  go  down  and  see,"  she  said. 

And  she  laid  the  book  of  poems  on  a  table  and  pre- 
pared to  get  up  from  the  sofa, 

"Rot!"  said  Lord  Holme;  "if  you're  nervous,  I'll  go." 

She  leaned  back. 

"Very  well." 

"In  a  minute." 

200 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

He  struck  a  match  and  let  it  out. 

"Do  go  now,  there's  a  good  dog,"  she  said  coaxingly. 

He  struck  another  match  and  held  it  head  down- 
wards. 

"You  needn't  hurry  a  feller." 

He  tapped  his  cigarette  gently  on  his  knee,  and  applied 
the  flame  to  it. 

"That's  better." 

Lady  Holme  moved  violently  on  the  sofa.  She  had 
a  pricking  sensation  all  over  her  body,  and  her  face  felt 
suddenly  very  hot,  as  if  she  had  fever.  A  ridiculous, 
but  painful  idea  started  up  suddenly  in  her  mind.  Could 
Fritz  suspect  anything?  Was  he  playing  with  her?  She 
dismissed  it  at  once  as  the  distorted  child  of  a  guilty 
conscience.  Fritz  was  not  that  sort  of  man.  He  might 
be  a  brute  sometimes,  but  he  was  never  a  subtle  brute. 
He  blew  two  thin  lines  of  smoke  out  through  his  nostrils 
now  with  a  sort  of  sensuous,  almost  languid,  deliberation, 
and  watched  them  fade  away  in  the  brilliantly-lit  room. 
Lady  Holme  resolved  to  adopt  another  manner,  more  in 
accord  with  her  condition  of  tense  nervousness. 

"When  I  ask  you  to  do  a  thing,  Fritz,  you  might  have 
the  decency  to  do  it,"  she  said  sharply.  "You're  forget- 
ting what's  due  to  me — to  any  woman." 

"Don't  fuss  at  this  time  of  night." 

"I  want  to  go  to  bed,  but  I'm  not  going  till  I'  know 
the  house  is  properly  shut  up.  Please  go  at  once  and 
see." 

"I  never  knew  you  were  such  a  coward,"  he  rejoined 
without  stirring.    "Who  was  at  the  opera?" 

"I  won't  talk  to  you  till  you  do  what  I  ask." 

"That's  a  staggerin'  blow." 

She  sprang  up  with  an  exclamation  of  anger.  Her 
nerves  were  on  edge  and  she  felt  inclined  to  scream 
out. 

20 1 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"I  never  thought  you  could  be  so — such  a  cad  to  a 
woman,  Fritz,"  she  said. 

She  moved  towards  the  door.  As  she  did  so  she 
heard  a  cab  in  the  square  outside,  a  rattle  of  wheels, 
then  silence.  It  had  stopped.  Her  heart  seemed  to  stand 
still,  too.  She  knew  now  that  she  was  a  coward,  though 
not  in  the  way  Fritz  meant.  She  was  a  coward  with 
regard  to  him.  Her  jealousy  had  prompted  her  to  do  a 
mad  thing.  In  doing  it  she  had  actually  meant  to  pro- 
duce a  violent  scene.  It  had  seemed  to  her  that  such  a 
scene  would  relieve  the  tension  of  her  nerves,  of  her 
heart,  would  clear  the  air.  But  now  that  the  scene 
seemed  imminent — if  Fritz  had  forgotten,  and  she  was 
certain  he  had  forgotten,  to  lock  the  door — she  felt  heart 
and  nerves  were  failing  her.  She  felt  that  she  had  risked 
too  much,  far  too  much.  With  almost  incredible  swift- 
ness she  remembered  her  imprudence  in  speaking  to 
Carey  at  Arkell  House  and  how  it  had  only  served  to 
put  a  weapon  into  her  husband's  hand,  a  weapon  he 
had  not  scrupled  to  use  in  his  selfish  way  to  further  his 
own  pleasure  and  her  distress.  That  stupid  failure  had 
not  sufBciently  warned  her,  and  now  she  was  on  the 
edge  of  some  greater  disaster.  She  was  positive  that  Leo 
Ulford  was  in  the  cab  which  had  just  stopped,  and  it 
was  too  late  now  to  prevent  him  from  entering  the  house. 
Lord  Holme  had  got  up  from  his  chair  and  stood  facing 
her.  He  looked  quite  pleasant.  She  thought  of  the 
change  that  would  come  into  his  face  in  a  moment  and 
turned  cold. 

"Don't  cut  up  so  deuced  rough,"  he  said.  "I'll  go  and 
lock  up." 

So  he  had  forgotten.  He  took  a  step  towards  the 
drawing-room  door.  But  now  she  felt  that  at  all  costs 
she  must  prevent  him  from  going  downstairs,  must  gain 
a  moment  somehow.    Suddenly  she  swayed  slightly. 

202 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"I  feel — awfully  faint,"  she  said. 

She  went  feebly,  but  quickly,  to  the  window  which 
looked  on  to  the  square,  drew  away  the  curtain,  opened 
the  window  and  leaned  out.  The  cab  had  stopped  before 
their  door,  and  she  saw  Leo  Ulford  standing  on  the 
pavement  with  his  back  to  the  house.  He  was  feeling  in 
his  pocket,  evidently  for  some  money  to  give  to  the 
cabman.  If  she  could  only  attract  his  attention  somehow 
and  send  him  away!  She  glanced  back.  Fritz  was  com- 
ing towards  her  with  a  look  of  surprise  on  his  face. 

"Leave  me  alone,"  she  said  unevenly.  "I  only  want 
some  air." 

"But—" 

"Leave  me — oh,  do  leave  me  alone!" 

He  stopped,  but  stood  staring  at  her  in  blank  amaze- 
ment. She  dared  not  do  anything.  Leo  Ulford  stretched 
out  his  arm  towards  the  cabman,  who  bent  down  from 
his  perch.  He  took  the  money,  looked  at  it,  then  bent 
down  again,  showing  it  to  Leo  and  muttering  some- 
thing. Doubtless  he  was  saying  that  it  was  not  enough. 
She  turned  round  again  sharply  to  Fritz. 

"Fritz,"  she  said,  "be  a  good  dog.  Go  upstairs  to 
my  room  and  fetch  me  some  eau  de  Cologne,  will  you?" 

"But—" 

"It's  on  my  dressing-table — the  gold  bottle  on  the 
right.  You  know.  I  feel  so  bad.  I'll  stay  here.  The 
air  will  bring  me  round  perhaps." 

She  caught  hold  of  the  curtain,  like  a  person  on  the 
point  of  swooning. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  and  he  went  out  of  the  room. 

She  watched  till  he  was  gone,  then  darted  to  the 
window  and  leaned  out. 

She  was  too  late.  The  cab  was  driving  ofif  and  Leo 
was  gone.    He  must  have  entered  the  house. 


203 


XIII 

BEFORE  she  had  time  to  leave  the  window  she 
heard  a  step  in  the  room.  She  turned  and  saw 
Leo  Ulford,  smiUng  broadly — like  a  great  boy — 
and  holding  up  the  latch-key  she  had  sent  him.  At  the 
sight  of  her  face  his  smile  died  away. 

"Go — go!"  she  whispered,  putting  out  her  hand.  "Go 
at  once!" 

"Go!    But  you  told  me— " 

"Go!  My  husband's  come  back.  He's  in  the  house. 
Go  quickly.  Don't  make  a  sound.  I'll  explain  to- 
morrow." 

She  made  a  rapid,  repeated  gesture  of  her  hands  to- 
wards the  door,  frowning.  Leo  Ulford  stood  for  an  in- 
stant looking  heavy  and  sulky,  then,  pushing  out  his 
rosy  lips  in  a  sort  of  indignant  pout,  he  swung  round 
on  his  heels.  As  he  did  so.  Lord  Holme  came  into  the 
room  holding  the  bottle  of  eau  de  Cologne.  When  he 
saw  Leo  he  stopped.  Leo  stopped  too,  and  they  stood 
for  a  moment  staring  at  each  other.  Lady  Holme,  who 
was  still  by  the  open  window,  did  not  move.  There  was 
complete  silence  in  the  room.  Then  Leo  dropped  the 
latch-key.  It  fell  on  the  thick  carpet  without  a  noise. 
He  made  a  hasty,  lumbering  movement  to  pick  it  up, 
but  Lord  Holme  was  too  quick  for  him.  When  Lady 
Holme  saw  the  key  in  her  husband's  hand  she  moved  at 
last  and  came  forward  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"Mr  Ulford's  come  to  tell  me  about  the  Blaxtons' 
dance,"  she  said. 

204 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

She  spoke  in  her  usual  light  voice,  without  tremor 
or  uncertainty.  Her  face  was  perfectly  calm  and  smiling. 
Leo  Ulford  cleared  his  throat. 

"Yes,"  he  said  loudly,  "about  the  Blaxtons'  dance." 

Lord  Holme  stood  looking  at  the  latch-key.  Suddenly 
his  face  swelled  up  and  became  bloated,  and  large  veins 
stood  out  in  his  brown  forehead. 

"What's  this  key?"  he  said. 

He  held  it  out  towards  his  wife.  Neither  she  nor 
Leo  Ulford  replied  to  his  question. 

"What's  this  key?"  he  repeated. 

"The  key  of  Mr  Ulford's  house,  I  suppose,"  said  Lady 
Holme.    "How  should  I  know?" 

"I'm  not  askin'  you,"  said  her  husband. 

He  came  a  step  nearer  to  Leo. 

"Why  the  devil  don't  you  answer?"  he  said  to  him. 

"It's  my  latch-key,"  said  Leo,  with  an  attempt  at  a 
laugh. 

Lord  Holme  flung  it  in  his  face. 

"You  damned  liar!"  he  said.    "It's  mine." 

And  he  struck  him  full  in  the  face  where  the  key  had 
just  struck  him. 

Leo  returned  the  blow.  When  she  saw  that,  Lady 
Holme  passed  the  two  men  and  went  quickly  out  of  the 
room,  shutting  the  door  behind  her.  Holding  her  hands 
over  her  ears,  she  hurried  upstairs  to  her  bedroom.  It 
was  in  darkness.  She  felt  about  on  the  wall  for  the 
button  that  turned  on  the  electric  light,  but  could  not 
find  it.  Her  hands,  usually  deft  and  certain  in  their 
movements,  seemed  to  have  lost  the  sense  of  touch.  It 
was  as  if  they  had  abruptly  been  deprived  of  their  minds. 
She  felt  and  felt.  She  knew  the  button  was  there.  Sud- 
denly the  room  was  full  of  light.  Without  being  aware 
of  it  she  had  found  the  button  and  turned  it.  In  the 
light  she  looked  down  at  her  hands  and  saw  that  they 

205 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE   FAN 

were  trembling  violently.  She  went  to  the  door  and  shut 
it.  Tlien  she  sat  down  on  the  sofa  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  She  clasped  her  hands  together  in  her  lap,  but  they 
went  on  trembling.  Pulses  were  beating  in  her  eyelids. 
She  felt  utterly  degraded,  like  a  scrupulously  clean  person 
who  has  been  rolled  in  the  dirt.  And  she  fancied 
she  heard  a  faint  and  mysterious  sound,  pathetic  and 
terrible,  but  very  far  away — the  white  angel  in  her 
weeping. 

And  the  believers  in  the  angel — were  they  weeping 
too? 

She  found  herself  wondering  as  a  sleeper  wonders  in 
a  dream. 

Presently  she  got  up.  She  could  not  sit  there  and 
see  her  hands  trembling.  She  did  not  walk  about  the 
room,  but  went  over  to  the  dressing-table  and  stood 
by  it,  resting  her  hands  upon  it  and  leaning  forward. 
The  attitude  seemed  to  relieve  her.  She  remained  there 
for  a  long  time,  scarcely  thinking  at  all,  only  feeling  de- 
graded, unclean.  The  sight  of  physical  violence  in  her 
own  drawing-room,  caused  by  her,  had  worked  havoc  in 
her.  She  had  always  thought  she  understood  the  brute 
in  man.  She  had  often  consciously  administered  to  it. 
She  had  coaxed  it,  flattered  it,  played  upon  it  even — 
surely — loved  it.  Now  she  had  suddenly  seen  it  rush  out 
into  the  full  light,  and  it  had  turned  her  sick. 

The  gold  things  on  the  dressing-table — bottles, 
brushes,  boxes,  trays — looked  ofifensive.  They  were  like 
lies  against  life,  frauds.  Everything  in  the  pretty  room 
was  like  a  lie  and  a  fraud.  There  ought  to  be  dirt, 
ugliness  about  her.  She  ought  to  stand  with  her  feet  in 
mud  and  look  on  blackness.  The  angel  in  her  shuddered 
at  the  siren  in  her  now,  as  at  a  witch  with  power  to  evoke 
Satanic  things,  and  she  forgot  the  trembling  of  her  hands 
in  the  sensation  of  the  trembling  of  her  soul.    The  blow 

206 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

of  Fritz,  the  blow  of  Leo  Ulford,  had  both  struck  her. 
She  felt  a  beaten  creature. 

The  door  opened.  She  did  not  turn  round,  but  she 
saw  in  the  glass  her  husband  come  in.  His  coat  was 
torn.  His  waistcoat  and  shirt  were  almost  in  rags. 
There  was  blood  on  his  face  and  on  his  right  hand.  In 
his  eyes  there  was  an  extraordinary  light,  utterly  unlike 
the  light  of  intelligence,  but  brilliant,  startling;  flame 
from  the  fire  by  which  the  animal  in  human  nature  warms 
itself.  In  the  glass  she  saw  him  look  at  her.  The  light 
seemed  to  stream  over  her,  to  scorch  her.  He  went 
into  his  dressing-room  without  a  word,  and  she  heard 
the  noise  of  water  being  poured  out  and  used  for  wash- 
ing. He  must  be  bathing  his  wounds,  getting  rid  of  the 
red  stains. 

She  sat  down  on  the  sofa  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and 
listened  to  the  noise  of  the  water.  At  last  it  stopped 
and  she  heard  drawers  being  violently  opened  and  shut, 
then  a  tearing  sound.  After  a  silence  her  husband  came 
into  the  room  again  with  his  forehead  bound  up  in  a 
silk  handkerchief,  which  was  awkwardly  knotted  behind 
his  head.  Part  of  another  silk  handkerchief  was  loosely 
tied  round  his  right  hand.  He  came  forward,  stood  in 
front  of  her  and  looked  at  her,  and  she  saw  now  that 
there  was  an  expression  almost  of  exultation  on  his  face. 
She  felt  something  fall  into  her  lap.  It  was  the  latch- 
key she  had  sent  to  Leo  Ulford. 

"I  can  tell  you  he's  sorry  he  ever  saw  that — damned 
sorry,"  said  Lord  Holme. 

And  he  laughed. 

Lady  Holme  took  the  key  up  carefully  and  put  it 
down  on  the  sofa.  She  was  realising  something,  realising 
that  her  husband  was  feeling  happy.  When  she  had 
laid  down  the  key  she  looked  up  at  him  and  there  was 
an  intense  scrutiny  in  her  eyes.     Suddenly  it  seemed  to 

207 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

her  as  if  she  were  standing  up  and  looking  down  on  him, 
as  if  she  were  the  judge,  he  the  culprit  in  this  matter. 
The  numbness  left  her  mind.  She  was  able  to  think 
swiftly  again  and  her  hands  stopped  trembling.  That 
look  of  exultation  in  her  husband's  eyes  had  changed 
everything. 

"Sit  down,  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 

She  was  surprised  by  the  calm  sound  of  her  own  voice. 

Lord  Holme  looked  astonished.  He  shifted  the  ban- 
dage on  his  hand  and  stood  where  he  was. 

"Sit  down,"  she  repeated. 

"Well!"  he  said. 

And  he  sat  down. 

"I  suppose  you  came  up  here  to  turn  me  out  of  the 
house?"  she  said. 

"You  deserve  it,"  he  muttered. 

But  even  now  he  did  not  look  angry.  There  was  a 
sort  of  savage  glow  on  his  face.  It  was  evident  that  the 
violent  physical  efifort  he  had  just  made,  and  the  success 
of  it,  had  irresistibly  swept  away  his  fury  for  the  moment. 
It  might  return.  Probably  it  would  return.  But  for  the 
moment  it  was  gone.  Lady  Holme  knew  Fritz,  and  she 
knew  that  he  was  feeling  good  all  over.  The  fact  that 
he  could  feel  thus  in  such  circumstances  set  the  brute 
in  him  before  her  as  it  had  never  been  set  before — in  a 
glare  of  light. 

"And  what  do  you  deserve  ?"  she  asked. 

All  her  terror  had  gone  utterly.  She  felt  mistress  of 
herself. 

"When  I  went  to  thrash  Carey  he  was  so  drunk  I 
couldn't  touch  him.  This  feller  showed  fight,  but  he 
was  a  baby  in  my  hands.  I  could  do  anything  I  liked 
with  him,"  said  Lord  Holme.    "Gad!    Talk  of  boxin' — " 

He  looked  at  his  bandaged  hand  and  laughed  again 
triumphantly.    Then,  suddenly,  a  sense  of  other  things 

208 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

than  his  physical  strength  seemed  to  return  upon  him. 
His  face  changed,  grew  lowering,  and  he  thrust  forward 
his  under  jaw,  opening  his  mouth  to  speak.  Lady  Holme 
did  not  give  him  time, 

"Yes,  I  sent  Leo  Ulford  the  latch-key,"  she  said. 
"You  needn't  ask.  I  sent  it,  and  told  him  to  come  to- 
night.   D'you  know  why?" 

Lord  Holme's  face  grew  scarlet. 

"Because  you're  a — " 

She  stopped  him  before  he  could  say  the  irrevocable 
word. 

"Because  I  mean  to  have  the  same  liberty  as  the  man 
I've  married,"  she  said.  "I  asked  Leo  Ulford  here,  and 
I  intended  you  should  find  him  here." 

"You  didn't.    You  thought  I  wasn't  comin'  home." 

"Why  should  I  have  thought  such  a  thing?"  she  said, 
swiftly,  sharply. 

Her  voice  had  an  edge  to  it. 

"You  meant  not  to  come  home  then?" 

She  had  read  his  stupidity  at  a  glance,  the  guilty  mind 
that  had  blundered,  thinking  its  intention  known  when 
it  was  not  known.  He  began  to  deny  it,  but  she  stopped 
him.  At  this  moment,  and  exactly  when  she  ought  surely 
to  have  been  crushed  by  the  weight  of  Fritz's  fury,  she 
dominated  him.  Afterwards  she  wondered  at  herself,  but 
not  now. 

"You  meant  not  to  come  home?" 

For  once  Lord  Holme  showed  a  certain  adroitness. 
Instead  of  replying  to  his  wife  he  retorted, — 

"You  meant  me  to  find  Ulford  here!  That's  a  good 
'un!    Why,  you  tried  all  you  knew  to  keep  him  out." 

"Yes." 

"Well  then?" 

"I  wanted — but  you'd  never  understand." 

"He  does,"  said  Lord  Holme. 
209 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

He  laughed  again,  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room, 
fingering  his  bandages.  Then  suddenly  he  turned  on 
Lady  Holme  and  said  savagely, — 

"And  you  do." 

"I?" 

"Yes,  you.  There's  lots  of  fellers  that  would — " 

"Stop!"  said  Lady  Holme,  in  a  voice  of  sharp 
decision. 

She  got  up,  too.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  say  what 
she  meant  to  say  sitting  down. 

"Fritz,"  she  added,  "you're  a  fool.  You  may  be  worse. 
I  believe  you  are.  But  one  thing's  certain — you're  a 
fool.    Even  in  wickedness  you're  a  blunderer." 

"And  what  are  you?"  he  said. 

"I!"  she  answered,  coming  a  step  nearer,  "Fm  not 
wicked." 

A  sudden,  strange  desire  came  to  her,  a  desire — as 
she  had  slangily  expressed  it  to  Robin  Pierce — to  "trot 
out"  the  white  angel  whom  she  had  for  so  long  ignored 
or  even  brow-beaten.  Was  the  white  angel  there?  Some 
there  were  who  believed  so.  Robin  Pierce,  Sir  Donald, 
perhaps  others.  And  these  few  believers  gave  Lady 
Holme  courage.  She  remembered  them,  she  relied  on 
them  at  this  moment. 

"I'm  not  wicked,"  she  repeated. 

She  looked  into  her  husband's  face. 

"Don't  you  know  that?" 

He  was  silent. 

"Perhaps  you'd  rather  I  was,"  she  continued.  "Don't 
men  prefer  it?" 

He  stared  first  at  her,  then  at  the  carpet.  A  puzzled 
look  came  into  his  face. 

"But  I  don't  care,"  she  said,  gathering  resolution,  and 
secretly  calling,  calling  on  the  hidden  woman,  yet  always 
with  a  doubt  as  to  whether  she  was  there  in  her  place  of 

2IO 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

concealment.  "I  don't  care.  I  can't  change  my  nature 
because  of  that.  And  surely — surely  there  must  be  some 
men  who  prefer  refinement  to  vulgarity,  purity  to — " 

"Ulford,  eh?"  he  interrupted. 

The  retort  struck  like  a  whip  on  Lady  Holme's  temper. 
She  forgot  the  believers  in  the  angel  and  the  angel, 
too. 

"How  dare  you?"  she  exclaimed.    "As  if  I — " 

He  took  up  the  latch-key  and  thrust  it  into  her  face. 
His  sense  of  physical  triumph  was  obviously  dying  away, 
his  sense  of  personal  outrage  returning. 

"Good  women  don't  do  things  like  that,"  he  said. 
"If  it  was  known  in  London  you'd  be  done  for." 

"And  you — may  you  do  what  you  like  openly, 
brazenly?" 

"Men's  different,"  he  said. 

The  words  and  the  satisfied  way  in  which  they  were 
said  made  Lady  Holme  feel  suddenly  almost  mad  with 
rage.  The  truth  of  the  statement,  and  the  disgrace  that 
it  was  truth,  stirred  her  to  the  depths.  At  that  moment 
she  hated  her  husband,  she  hated  all  men.  She  remem- 
bered what  Lady  Cardington  had  said  in  the  carriage 
as  they  were  driving  away  from  the  Carlton  after  Mrs 
Wolfstein's  lunch,  and  her  sense  of  impotent  fury  was 
made  more  bitter  by  the  consciousness  that  women  had 
chosen  that  men  should  be  "different,"  or  at  least — if 
not  that — had  smilingly  given  them  a  license  to  be  so. 
She  wanted  to  say,  to  call  out,  so  much  that  she  said 
nothing.  Lord  Holme  thought  that  for  once  he  had 
been  clever,  almost  intellectual.  This  was  indeed  a  night 
of  many  triumphs  for  him.  An  intoxication  of  power 
surged  up  to  his  brain. 

"Men's  made  different  and  treated  differently,"  he 
said.    "And  they'd  never  stand  anything  else." 

Lady  Holme  sat  down  again  on  the  sofa.     She  put 

211 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

her  right  hand  on  her  left  hand  and  held  it  tightly  in 
her  lap. 

"You  mean,"  she  said,  in  a  hard,  quiet  voice,  "that 
you  may  humiliate  your  wife  in  the  eyes  of  London 
and  that  she  must  just  pretend  that  she  enjoys  it  and 
go  on  being  devoted  to  you?  Well,  I  will  not  do  either 
the  one  or  the  other.  I  will  not  endure  humiliation 
quietly,  and  as  to  my  devotion  to  you — I  daresay  it 
wouldn't  take  much  to  kill  it.  Perhaps  it's  dead  al- 
ready." 

No  lie,  perhaps,  ever  sounded  more  like  truth  than 
hers.  At  that  moment  she  thought  that  probably  it  was 
truth. 

"Eh?"  said  Lord  Holme. 

He  looked  suddenly  less  triumphant.  His  blunt  fea- 
tures seemed  altered  in  shape  by  the  expression  of 
blatant,  boyish  surprise,  even  amazement,  that  overspread 
them.  His  wife  saw  that,  despite  the  incident  of  Leo 
Ulford's  midnight  visit,  Fritz  had  not  really  suspected 
her  of  the  uttermost  faithlessness,  that  it  had  not  occurred 
to  him  that  perhaps  her  love  for  him  was  dead,  that  love 
was  alive  in  her  for  another  man.  Had  his  conceit  then 
no  limits? 

And  then  suddenly  another  thought  flashed  into  her 
mind.  Was  he,  too,  a  firm,  even  a  fanatical,  believer  in 
the  angel?  She  had  never  numbered  Fritz  among  that 
little  company  of  believers.  Him  she  had  always  set 
among  the  men  who  worship  the  sirens  of  the  world. 
But  now — ?  Can  there  be  two  men  in  one  man  as  there 
can  be  two  women  in  one  woman?  Suddenly  Fritz  was 
new  to  her,  newer  to  her  than  on  the  day  when  she  first 
met  him.  And  he  was  complex.  Fritz  complex!  She 
changed  the  word  conceit.  She  called  it  trust.  And  tears 
rushed  into  her  eyes.  There  were  tears  in  her  heart,  too. 
She  looked  up  at  her  husband.    The  silk  bandage  over 

212 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

his  forehead  had  been  white.  Now  it  was  faintly  red. 
As  she  looked  she  thought  that  the  colour  of  the  red 
deepened. 

"Come  here,  Fritz,"  she  said  softly. 

He  moved  nearer. 

"Bend  down!" 

"Eh?" 

"Bend  down  your  head." 

He  bent  down  his  huge  form  with  a  movement  that 
had  in  it  some  resemblance  to  the  movement  of  a  child. 
She  put  up  her  hand  and  touched  the  bandage  where  it 
was  red.    She  took  her  hand  away.    It  was  damp. 

A  moment  later  Fritz  was  sitting  in  a  low  chair  by 
the  wash-stand  in  an  obedient  attitude,  and  a  woman — 
was  she  siren  or  angel? — was  bathing  an  ugly  wound. 


213 


XIV 

AFTER  that  night  Lady  Holme  began  to  do  some- 
thing she  had  never  done  before — to  ideahse 
her  husband.  Hitherto  she  had  loved  him  with- 
out weaving  pretty  fancies  round  him,  loved  him  crudely 
for  his  strength,  his  animalism,  his  powerful  egoism  and 
imperturbable  self-satisfaction.  She  had  loved  him  almost 
as  a  savage  woman  might  love,  though  without  her  sense 
of  slaver}'.  Now  a  change  came  over  her.  She  thought 
of  Fritz  in  a  different  way,  the  new  Fritz,  the  Fritz  who 
was  a  believer  in  the  angel.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he 
could  be  kept  faithful  most  easily,  most  surely,  by  such 
an  appeal  as  Robin  Pierce  would  have  loved.  She  had 
sought  to  rouse,  to  play  upon  the  instincts  of  the  primi- 
tive man.  She  had  not  gone  very  far,  it  is  true,  but  her 
methods  had  been  common,  ordinary.  She  had  under- 
valued Fritz's  nature.  That  was  what  she  felt  now.  He 
had  behaved  badly  to  her,  had  wronged  her,  but  he  had 
believed  in  her  very  much.  She  resolved  to  make  his 
belief  more  intense.  An  expression  on  his  face — only 
that — had  wrought  a  vital  change  in  her  feeling  towards 
him,  her  conception  of  him.  She  ranged  him  henceforth 
with  Sir  Donald,  with  Robin  Pierce.  He  stood  among 
the  believers  in  the  angel. 

She  called  upon  the  angel  passionately,  feverishly. 

There  was  strength  in  Lady  Holme's  character  and 
not  merely  strength  of  temper.  When  she  was  roused, 
confident,  she  could  be  resolute,  persistent;  could  shut 
her  eyes  to  side  issues  and  go  onward  looking  straight 

214 


THE    WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

before  her.  Now  she  went  onward  and  she  felt  a  new 
force  within  her,  a  force  that  would  not  condescend  to 
pettiness,  to  any  groping  in  the  mud. 

Lord  Holme  was  puzzled.  He  felt  the  change  in  his 
wife,  but  did  not  understand  it.  Since  the  fracas  with 
Leo  Ulford  their  relations  had  slightly  altered.  Vaguely, 
confusedly,  he  was  conscious  of  being  pitied,  yes,  surely 
pitied  by  his  wife.  She  shed  a  faint  compassion,  like  a 
light  cloud,  over  the  glory  of  his  wrong-doing.  And 
the  glory  was  abated.  He  felt  a  little  doubtful  of  him- 
self, almost  as  a  son  feels  sometimes  in  the  presence  of 
his  mother.  For  the  first  time  he  began  to  think  of  him- 
self, now  and  then,  as  the  inferior  of  his  wife,  began 
even,  now  and  then,  to  think  of  man  as  the  inferior  of 
woman — in  certain  ways.  Such  a  state  of  mind  was  very 
novel  in  him.  He  stared  at  it  as  a  baby  stares  at  its  toes, 
with  round  amazement,  inwardly  saying,  "Is  this  phe- 
nomenon part  of  me?" 

There  was  a  new  gentleness  in  Viola,  a  new  tender- 
ness. Both  put  him — as  one  lifted  and  dropped — a  step 
below  her.  He  pulled  his  bronze  moustache  over  it  with 
vigour. 

His  wife  showed  no  desire  to  control  his  proceedings, 
to  know  what  he  was  about.  When  she  spoke  of  Miss 
Schley  she  spoke  kindly,  sympathetically,  but  with  a 
dainty,  delicate  pity,  as  one  who  secretly  murmurs,  "If 
she  had  only  had  a  chance!"  Lord  Holme  began  to 
think  it  a  sad  thing  that  she  had  not  had  a  chance.  The 
mere  thought  sent  the  American  a  step  down  from  her 
throne.  She  stood  below  him  now,  as  he  stood  below 
Viola.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  less  resemblance 
between  his  wife  and  Miss  Schley  than  he  had  fancied. 
He  even  said  so  to  Lady  Holme.  The  angel  smiled. 
Somebody  else  in  her  smiled,  too.  Once  he  remarked 
to  the  angel,  d  propos  de  bottcs,  "We  men  are  awful  brutes 

215 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

sometimes."  Then  he  paused.  As  she  said  nothing,  only 
looked  very  kind,  he  added,  "I'll  bet  you  think  so,  Vi?" 

It  sounded  like  a  question,  but  she  preferred  to  give 
no  answer,  and  he  walked  away  shaking  his  head  over 
the  brutishness  of  men. 

The  believers  in  the  angel  naturally  welcomed  the 
development  in  Lady  Holme  and  the  unbelievers  laughed 
at  it,  especially  those  who  had  been  at  Arkell  House  and 
those  who  had  been  influenced  by  Pimpernel  Schley's 
clever  imitation.  One  night  at  the  opera,  when  Tann- 
hduser  was  being  given,  Mr  Bry  said  of  it,  "I  seem  to 
hear  the  voice  of  Venus  raised  in  the  prayer  of  Elizabeth." 
Mrs  Wolfstein  lifted  large  eyebrows  over  it,  and  re- 
marked to  Henry,  in  exceptionally  guttural  German, — 

"If  this  goes  on  Pimpernel's  imitation  will  soon  be 
completely  out  of  date." 

To  be  out  of  date — in  Mrs  Wolfstein's  opinion — was 
to  be  irremediably  damned.  Lady  Cardington,  Sir 
Donald  Ulford,  and  one  or  two  others  began  to  feel  as 
if  their  dream  took  form  and  stepped  out  of  the  mystic 
realm  towards  the  light  of  day.  Sir  Donald  seemed 
specially  moved  by  the  change.  It  was  almost  as  if  some- 
thing within  him  blossomed,  warmed  by  the  breath  of 
spring. 

Lady  Holme  wondered  whether  he  knew  of  the  fight 
between  her  husband  and  his  son.  She  dared  not  ask 
him  and  he  only  mentioned  Leo  once.  Then  he  said 
that  Leo  had  gone  down  to  his  wife's  country  place  in 
Hertfordshire.  Lady  Holme  could  not  tell  by  his  in- 
tonation whether  he  had  guessed  that  there  was  a  special 
reason  for  this  departure.  She  was  glad  Leo  had  gone. 
The  developing  angel  did  not  want  to  meet  the  man 
who  had  suffered  from  the  siren's  common  conduct.  Leo 
was  not  worth  much.  She  knew  that.  But  she  realised 
now  the  meanness   of   having  used  him  merely  as  a 

216 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

weapon  against  Fritz,  and  not  only  the  meanness,  but 
the  vulgarity  of  the  action.  There  were  moments  in 
which  she  was  fully  conscious  that,  despite  her  rank,  she 
had  not  endured  unsmirched  close  contact  with  the  ram- 
pant commonness  of  London, 

One  of  the  last  great  events  of  the  season  was  to  be 
a  charity  concert,  got  up  by  a  Royal  Princess  in  connec- 
tion with  a  committee  of  well-known  women  to  start  a 
club  for  soldiers  and  sailors.  Various  amateurs  and  pro- 
fessionals were  asked  to  take  part  in  it,  among  them 
Lady  Holme  and  Miss  Schley.  Tlie  latter  had  already 
accepted  the  invitation  when  Lady  Holme  received  the 
Royal  request,  which  was  made  viva  voce  and  was 
followed  by  a  statement  about  the  composition  of  the 
programme,  in  which  "that  clever  Miss  Schley"  was 
named. 

Lady  Holme  hesitated.  She  had  not  met  the  Amer- 
ican for  some  time  and  did  not  wish  to  meet  her.  Since 
she  had  bathed  her  husband's  wound  she  knew — she 
could  not  have  told  how — that  Miss  Schley's  power  over 
him  had  lessened.  She  did  not  know  what  had  happened 
between  them.  She  did  not  know  that  anything  had 
happened.  And,  as  part  of  this  new  effort  of  hers,  she 
had  had  the  strength  to  beat  down  the  vehement,  the 
terrible  curiosity — cold  steel  and  fire  combined — that  is 
a  part  of  jealousy.  That  curiosity,  she  told  herself,  be- 
longed to  the  siren,  not  to  the  angel.  But  at  this  Royal 
request  her  temper  waked,  and  with  it  many  other  chil- 
dren of  her  temperament.  It  was  as  if  she  had  driven 
them  into  a  dark  cave  and  had  rolled  a  great  stone  to 
the  cave's  mouth.  Now  the  stone  was  pushed  back,  and 
in  the  darkness  she  heard  them  stirring,  whispering,  pre- 
paring to  come  forth. 

The  Royal  lady  looked  slightly  surprised.  She  coughed 
and  glanced  at  a  watch  she  wore  at  her  side. 

217 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  do  anything,  ma'am,"  Lady 
Holme  said  quickly. 

When  she  received  the  programme  she  found  that  her 
two  songs  came  immediately  after  "Some  Imitations" 
by  Miss  Pimpernel  Schley, 

She  stood  for  a  moment  with  the  programme  in  her 
hand. 

"Some  Imitations;"  there  was  a  certain  crudeness 
about  the  statement,  a  crudeness  and  an  indefiniteness 
combined.  Who  were  to  be  the  victims?  At  this  mo- 
ment, perhaps,  they  were  being  studied.  Was  she  to 
be  pilloried  again  as  she  had  been  pilloried  that  night 
at  the  British  Theatre?  The  calm  malice  of  the  Amer- 
ican was  capable  of  any  impudent  act.  It  seemed  to 
Lady  Holme  that  she  had  perhaps  been  very  foolish  in 
promising  to  appear  in  the  same  programme  with  Miss 
Schley.  Was  it  by  accident  that  their  names  were  put 
together?  Lady  Holme  did  not  know  who  had  arranged 
the  order  of  the  performances,  but  it  occurred  to  her 
that  there  was  attraction  to  the  public  in  the  contiguity, 
and  that  probably  it  was  a  matter  of  design.  No  other 
two  women  had  been  discussed  and  compared,  smiled 
over  and  whispered  about  that  season  by  Society  as  she 
and  Miss  Schley  had  been. 

For  a  moment,  while  she  looked  at  the  programme, 
she  thought  of  the  strange  complications  of  feeling  that 
are  surely  the  fruit  of  an  extreme  civilisation.  She  saw 
herself  caught  in  a  spider's  web  of  apparently  frail,  yet 
really  powerful,  threads  spun  by  an  invisible  spider.  Her 
world  was  full  of  gossamer  playing  the  part  of  iron,  of 
gossamer  that  was  compelling,  that  made  and  kept  pris- 
oners. What  freedom  was  there  for  her  and  women  like 
her,  what  reality  of  freedom?  Even  beauty,  birth, 
money  were  gossamer  to  hold  the  fly.  For  they 
concentrated   the  gaze   of  those  terrible  watchful   eyes 

218 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

which  govern  Hves,  dominating  actions,  even  dominating 
thoughts. 

She  moved,  had  always  moved,  in  a  maze  of  compli- 
cations. She  saw  them  tiny  yet  intense,  like  ants  in 
their  hill.  They  stirred  minds,  hearts,  as  the  ants  stirred 
twigs,  leaves,  blossoms,  and  carried  them  to  the  hill  for 
their  own  purposes.  In  this  maze  free  will  was  surely 
lost.  The  beautiful  woman  of  the  world  seems  to  the 
world  to  be  a  dominant  being,  to  be  imposing  the  yoke  of 
her  will  on  those  around  her.  But  is  she  anything  but 
a  slave? 

Why  were  she  and  Miss  Schley  enemies?  Why  had 
they  been  enemies  from  the  moment  they  met?  There 
was  perhaps  a  reason  for  their  hostility  now,  a  reason 
in  Fritz.  But  at  the  beginning  what  reason  had  there 
been?  Civilisation  manufactures  reasons  as  the  spider 
manufactures  threads,  because  it  is  the  deadly  enemy  of 
peace — manufactures  reasons  for  all  those  thoughts  and 
actions  which  are  destructive  of  inward  and  exterior 
peace. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  Lady  Holme  as  if  she 
and  the  American  were  merely  victims  of  the  morbid 
conditions  amid  which  they  lived;  conditions  which 
caused  the  natural  vanity  of  women  to  become  a  destroy- 
ing fever,  the  natural  striving  of  women  to  please  a 
venomous  battle,  the  natural  desire  of  women  to  be 
loved  a  fracas,  in  which  clothes  were  the  armour,  modes 
of  hair-dressing,  manicure,  perfumes,  dyes,  powder-pufTs 
the  weapons. 

What  a  tremendous,  noisy  nothingness  it  was,  this 
state  of  being!  How  could  an  angel  be  natural  in  it, — 
be  an  angel  at  all  ? 

She  laid  down  the  programme  and  sighed.  She  felt  a 
vague  yet  violent  desire  for  release,  for  a  fierce  change, 
for  something  that  would  brush  away  the  spider's  web 

219 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

and  set  free  her  wings.  Yet  where  would  she  fly?  She 
did  not  know;  probably  against  a  window-pane.  And 
the  change  would  never  come.  She  and  Fritz — what 
could  they  ever  be  but  a  successful  couple  known  in  a 
certain  world,  and  never  moving  beyond  its  orbit? 

Perhaps  for  the  first  time  the  longing  that  she  had 
often  expressed  in  her  singing,  obedient  to  poet  and 
composer,  invaded  her  own  soul.  Without  music  she 
was  what  with  music  she  had  often  seemed  to  be — a 
creature  of  wayward  and  romantic  desires,  a  yearning 
spirit,  a  soaring  flame. 

At  that  moment  she  could  have  sung  better  than  she 
had  ever  sung. 

On  the  programme  the  names  of  her  songs  did  not 
appear.  They  were  represented  by  the  letters  A  and  B. 
She  had  not  decided  yet  what  she  would  sing.  But  now, 
moved  by  feeling  to  the  longing  for  some  action  in 
which  she  might  express  it,  she  resolved  to  sing  some- 
thing in  which  she  could  at  least  flutter  the  wings  she 
longed  to  free,  something  in  which  the  angel  could  lift 
its  voice,  something  that  would  delight  the  believers  in 
the  angel  and  be  as  far  removed  from  Miss  Schley's 
imitations  as  possible. 

After  a  time  she  chose  two  songs.  One  was  English, 
by  a  young  composer,  and  was  called  "Away."  It 
breathed  something  of  the  spirit  of  the  East.  The  man 
who  had  written  it  had  travelled  much  in  the  East,  had 
drawn  into  his  lungs  the  air,  into  his  nostrils  the  per- 
fume, into  his  soul  the  meaning  of  desert  places.  There 
was  distance  in  his  music.  There  was  mystery.  There 
was  the  call  of  the  God  of  Gold  who  lives  in  the  sun. 
There  was  the  sound  of  feet  that  travel.  The  second 
song  she  chose  was  French.  The  poem  was  derived 
from  a  writing  of  Jalalu'd  dinu'r  Rumi,  and  told  this 
story: 

220 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

One  day  a  man  came  to  knock  upon  the  door  of  the 
being  he  loved.  A  voice  cried,  from  within  the  house, 
"Qtci  est  la?"  "C'est  moiT  repHed  the  man.  There  was 
a  pause.  Then  the  voice  answered,  "This  house  cannot 
shelter  us  both  together."  Sadly  the  lover  went  away, 
went  into  the  great  solitude,  fasted  and  prayed.  When  a 
long  year  had  passed  he  came  once  more  to  the  house  of 
the  one  he  loved,  and  struck  again  upon  the  door.  The 
voice  from  within  cried,  "Qui  est  la?"  "C'est  toil"  whis- 
pered the  lover.  Then  the  door  was  opened  swiftly  and 
he  passed  in  with  outstretched  arms. 

Having  decided  that  she  would  sing  these  two  songs, 
Lady  Holme  sat  down  to  go  through  them  at  the  piano. 
Just  as  she  struck  the  first  chord  of  the  desert  song  a 
footman  came  in  to  know  whether  she  was  at  home  to 
Lady  Cardington.  She  answered  "Yes."  In  her  present 
mood  she  longed  to  give  out  her  feeling  to  an  audience, 
and  Lady  Cardington  was  very  sympathetic. 

In  a  minute  she  came  in,  looking  as  usual  blanched 
and  tired,  dressed  in  black  with  some  pale  yellow  roses 
in  the  front  of  her  gown.  Seeing  Lady  Holme  at  the 
piano  she  said,  in  her  low  voice  with  a  thrill  in  it, — 

"You  are  singing?    Let  me  listen,  let  me  listen." 

She  did  not  come  up  to  shake  hands,  but  at  once  sat 
down  at  a  short  distance  from  the  piano,  leaned  back, 
and  gazed  at  Lady  Holme  with  a  strange  expression  of 
weary,  yet  almost  passionate,  expectation. 

Lady  Holme  looked  at  her  and  at  the  desert  song. 
Suddenly  she  thought  she  would  not  sing  it  to  Lady 
Cardington.  There  was  too  wild  a  spell  in  it  for  this 
auditor.  She  played  a  little  prelude  and  sang  an  Italian 
song,  full,  as  a  warm  flower  of  sweetness,  of  the  sweetness 
of  love.  The  refrain  was  soft  as  golden  honey,  soft 
and  languorous,  strangely  sweet  and  sad.  There  was 
an  exquisite  music  in  the  words  of  the  refrain,  and  the 

221 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

music  they  were  set  to  made  their  appeal  more  cHnging, 
like  the  appeal  of  white  arms,  of  red,  parting  lips. 

"Torna  in  fior  di  giovinezza 
Isaotta  Blanzesmano, 
Dice:  Tutto  al  mando  h  vano: 
Nb  I'amore  ogni  dolcezza." 

Tears  came  into  Lady  Cardington's  eyes  as  she  lis- 
tened, brimmed  over  and  fell  down  upon  her  blanched 
cheeks.  Each  time  the  refrain  recurred  she  moved  her 
lips:  "Dice:  Tutto  al  mondo  e  vano:  Ne  I'amore  ogni 
dolcezza." 

Lady  Holme's  voice  was  like  honey  as  she  sang,  and 
tears  were  in  her  eyes,  too.  Each  time  the  refrain  fell 
from  her  heart  she  seemed  to  see  another  world,  empty 
of  gossamer  threads,  a  world  of  spread  wings,  a  world 
of — but  such  poetry  and  music  do  not  tell  you !  Nor  can 
you  imagine.  You  can  only  dream  and  wonder,  as 
when  you  look  at  the  horizon  line  and  pray  for  the  things 
beyond. 

"Tutto — tutto  al  mondo  h  vano: 
Ne  I'amore  ogni  dolcezza." 

"Why  do  you  sing  like  that  to-day?"  said  Lady  Card- 
ington^  wiping  her  eyes  gently. 

"I  feel  like  that  to-day,"  Lady  Holme  said,  keeping 
her  hands  on  the  keys  in  the  last  chord.  There  was  a 
vagueness  in  her  eyes,  a  sort  of  faint  cloud  of  fear.  While 
she  was  singing  she  had  thought,  "Have  I  known  the 
love  that  shows  the  vanity  of  the  world?  Have  I  known 
the  love  in  which  alone  all  sweetness  lives?"  The  thought 
had  come  in  like  a  firefly  through  an  open  window. 
"Havel?    Havel?" 

And  something  within  her  felt  a  stab  of  pain,  some- 
thing within  her  soul  and  yet  surely  a  thousand  miles 
away. 

222 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Tutto — tutto  al  mondo  e  vano,"  murmured  Lady 
Cardington.  "We  feel  that  and  we  feel  it,  and — do 
you?" 

"To-day  I  seem  to,"  answered  Lady  Holme. 

"When  you  sing  that  song  you  look  like  the  love  that 
gives  all  sweetness  to  men.  Sing  like  that,  look  like  that, 
and  you —    If  Sir  Donald  had  heard  you!" 

Lady  Holme  got  up  from  the  piano. 

"Sir  Donald!"  she  said. 

She  came  to  sit  down  near  Lady  Cardington. 

"Sir  Donald!    Why  do  you  say  that?" 

And  she  searched  Lady  Cardington's  eyes  with  eyes 
full  of  inquiry. 

Lady  Cardington  looked  away.  The  wistful  power 
that  generally  seemed  a  part  of  her  personality  had 
surely  died  out  in  her.  There  was  something  nervous  in 
her  expression,  deprecating  in  her  attitude. 

"Why  do  you  speak  about  Sir  Donald?"  Lady  Holme 
said. 

"Don't  you  know?" 

Lady  Cardington  looked  up.  There  was  an  extraor- 
dinary sadness  in  her  eyes,  mingled  with  a  faint  defiance. 

"Know  what?" 

"That  Sir  Donald  is  madly  in  love  with  you?" 

"Sir  Donald!    Sir  Donald — madly  anything!" 

She  laughed,  not  as  if  she  were  amused,  but  as  if 
she  wished  to  do  something  else  and  chose  to  laugh  in- 
stead.   Lady  Cardington  sat  straight  up. 

"You  don't  understand  anything  but  youth,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  sound  of  keen  bitterness  in  her  low  voice. 

"And  yet,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "you  can  sing 
till  you  break  the  heart  of  age — break  its  heart." 

Suddenly  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Lady  Holme 
was  so  surprised  that  she  did  absolutely  nothing,  did 
not  attempt  to  console,  to  inquire.     She  sat  and  looked 

223 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

at  Lady  Cardington's  tall  figure  swayed  by  grief,  listened 
to  the  sound  of  her  hoarse,  gasping  sobs.  And  then, 
abruptly,  as  if  someone  came  into  the  room  and  told  her, 
she  understood. 

"You  love  Sir  Donald,"  she  said. 

Lady  Cardington  looked  up.  Her  tear-stained,  dis- 
torted face  seemed  very  old. 

"We  both  regret  the  same  thing  in  the  same  way," 
she  said.  "We  were  both  wretched  in — in  the  time  when 
we  ought  to  have  been  happy.  I  thought — I  had  a 
ridiculous  idea  we  might  console  each  other.  You  shat- 
tered my  hope." 

"I'm  sorry,"  Lady  Holme  said. 

And  she  said  it  with  more  tenderness  than  she  had 
ever  before  used  to  a  woman. 

Lady  Cardington  pressed  a  pocket-handkerchief 
against  her  eyes. 

"Sing  me  that  song  again,"  she  whispered.  "Don't  say 
anything  more.    Just  sing  it  again  and  I'll  go." 

Lady  Holme  went  to  the  piano. 

"Torna  in  fior  di  giovinezza 
Isaotta  Blanzesmano, 
Dice:  Tutta  al  mondo  e  vano: 
N^  I'amore  ogni  dolcezza." 

When  the  last  note  died  away  she  looked  towards  the 
sofa.  Lady  Cardington  was  gone.  Lady  Holme  leaned 
her  arm  on  the  piano  and  put  her  chin  in  her  hand. 

"How  awful  to  be  old!"  she  thought. 

Half  aloud  she  repeated  the  last  words  of  the  refrain 
"Ne  I'amore  ogni  dolcezza."    And  then  she  murmured, — 

"Poor  Sir  Donald!" 

And  then  she  repeated,  "Poor — "  and  stopped. 

Again  the  faint  cloud  of  fear  was  in  her  eyes. 


224 


XV 

THE  Charity  Concert  was  to  be  given  in  Man- 
chester House,  one  of  the  private  palaces  of 
London,  and  as  Royalty  had  promised  to  be 
present,  all  the  tickets  were  quickly  sold.  Among  those 
who  bought  them  were  most  of  the  guests  who  had  been 
present  at  the  Holmes'  dinner-party  when  Lady  Holme 
lost  her  temper  and  was  consoled  by  Robin  Pierce. 
Robin  of  course  was  in  Rome,  but  Lady  Cardington, 
Lady  Manby,  Mrs  Wolfstein,  Sir  Donald,  Mr  Bry  took 
seats.  Rupert  Carey  also  bought  a  ticket.  He  was  not 
invited  to  great  houses  any  more,  but  on  this  public  occa- 
sion no  one  with  a  guinea  to  spend  was  unwelcome.  To 
Lady  Holme's  surprise  the  day  before  the  concert  Fritz 
informed  her  that  he  was  going  too. 

"You,  Fritz!"  she  exclaimed.  "But  it's  in  the  after- 
noon." 

"What  o'  that?" 

"You'll  be  bored  to  death.  You'll  go  to  sleep.  Prob- 
ably you'll  snore." 

"Not  L" 

He  straddled  his  legs  and  looked  attentively  at  the 
toes  of  his  boots.  Lady  Holme  wondered  why  he  was 
going.  Had  Miss  Schley  made  a  point  of  it?  She  longed 
to  know.  The  cruel  curiosity  which  the  angel  was  ever 
trying  to  beat  down  rose  up  in  her  powerfully. 

"I  say—" 

Her  husband  was  speaking  with  some  hesitation. 

".Well?" 

225 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

"Let's  have  a  squint  at  the  programme,  will  you?" 

"Here  it  is." 

She  gave  it  to  him  and  watched  him  narrowly  as  he 
looked  quickly  over  it. 

"Hulloa!"  he  said. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Some  Imitations,"  he  said.    "What's  that  mean?" 

"Didn't  you  know  Miss  Schley  was  a  mimic?" 

"A  mimic — not  I!    She's  an  actress." 

"Yes— now." 

"Now?    When  was  she  anythin'  else?" 

"When  she  began  in  America.  She  was  a  mimic  in  the 
music-halls." 

"The  deuce  she  was!" 

He  stood  looking  very  grave  and  puzzled  for  a  minute, 
then  he  stared  hard  at  his  wife. 

"What  did  she  mimic?" 

"I  don't  know — people." 

Again  there  was  a  silence.    Then  he  said, — 

"I  say,  I  don't  know  that  I  want  you  to  sing  at  that 
affair  to-morrow." 

"But  I  must.    Why  not?" 

He  hesitated,  shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other  almost 
like  a  great  boy. 

"I  don't  know  what  She's  up  to,"  he  answered  at  last. 

"Miss  Schley?" 

"Ah!" 

Lady  Holme  felt  her  heart  beat  faster.  Was  her  hus- 
band going  to  open  up  a  discussion  of  the  thing  that 
had  been  turning  her  life  to  gall  during  these  last  weeks — 
his  flirtation,  his  liaison — if  it  were  a  liaison;  she  did 
not  know — with  the  American?  The  woman  who  had 
begun  to  idealise  Fritz  and  the  woman  who  was  desper- 
ately jealous  of  him  both  seemed  to  be  quivering  within 
her. 

226 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Do  you  mean — ?"  she  began. 

She  stopped,  then  spoke  again  in  a  quiet  voice. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  think  Miss  Schley  is  going  to 
do  something  unusual  at  the  concert  to-morrow?" 

"I  dunno.    She's  the  devil." 

There  was  a  reluctant  admiration  in  his  voice,  as  there 
always  is  in  the  voice  of  a  man  when  he  describes  a 
woman  as  gifted  with  infernal  attributes,  and  this  sound 
stung  Lady  Holme.  It  seemed  to  set  that  angel  upon 
whom  she  was  calling  in  the  dust,  to  make  of  that  angel 
a  puppet,  an  impotent,  even  a  contemptible  thing. 

"My  dear  Fritz,"  she  said  in  a  rather  loud,  clear  voice, 
like  the  voice  of  one  speaking  to  a  child,  "my  dear  Fritz, 
you're  surely  aware  that  I  have  been  the  subject  of  Miss 
Schley's  talent  ever  since  she  arrived  in  London?" 

"You!    What  d'you  mean ?" 

"You  surely  can't  be  so  blind  as  not  to  have  seen  what 
all  London  has  seen?" 

"What's  all  London  seen?" 

"Why,  that  Miss  Schley's  been  mimicking  me!" 

"Mimickin'  you!" 

The  brown  of  his  large  cheeks  was  invaded  by  red. 

"But  you  have  noticed  it.  I  remember  your  speaking 
about  it." 

"Not  I!"  he  exclaimed  with  energy. 

"Yes.  You  spoke  of  the  likeness  between  us,  in  ex- 
pression, in  ways  of  looking  and  moving." 

"That — I  thought  it  was  natural." 

"You  thought  it  was  natural?" 

There  was  a  profound,  if  very  bitter,  compassion  in 
her  voice. 

"Poor  old  boy!"  she  added. 

Lord  Holme  looked  desperately  uncomfortable.  His 
legs  were  in  a  most  violent,  even  a  most  pathetic  com- 

227 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

motion,  and  he  tugged  his  moustache  with  the  fingers  of 
both  hands. 

"Damned  cheek!"  he  muttered.    "Damned  cheek!" 

He  turned  suddenly  as  if  he  were  going  to  stride  about 
the  room. 

"Don't  get  angry,"  said  his  wife.    "I  never  did." 

He  swung  round  and  faced  her. 

"D'you  mean  you've  always  known  she  was  mimickin' 
you?" 

"Of  course.    From  the  very  start." 

His  face  got  redder, 

"I'll  teach  her  to  let  my  wife  alone,"  he  muttered.  "To 
dare — my  wife!" 

"I'm  afraid  it's  a  little  late  in  the  day  to  begin  now," 
Lady  Holme  said.  "Society's  been  laughing  over  it,  and 
your  apparent  appreciation  of  it,  the  best  part  of  the 
season." 

"My  what?" 

"Your  apparent  enjoyment  of  the  performance." 

And  then  she  went  quietly  out  of  the  room  and  shut 
the  door  gently  behind  her.  But  directly  the  door  was 
shut  she  became  another  woman.  Her  mouth  was  dis- 
torted, her  eyes  shone,  she  rushed  upstairs  to  her  bed- 
room, locked  herself  in,  threw  herself  down  on  the  bed, 
and  pressed  her  face  furiously  against  the  coverlet. 

The  fact  that  she  had  spoken  at  last  to  her  husband 
of  the  insult  she  had  been  silently  enduring,  the  insult 
he  had  made  so  far  more  bitter  than  it  need  have  been 
by  his  conduct,  had  broken  down  something  within  her, 
some  wall  of  pride  behind  which  had  long  been  gather- 
ing a  flood  of  feeling.  She  cried  now  frantically,  with  a 
sort  of  despairing  rage,  cried  and  crushed  herself  against 
the  bed,  beating  the  pillows  with  her  hands,  grinding  her 
teeth. 

228 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

What  was  the  use  of  it  all?  What  was  the  use  of 
being  beautiful,  of  being  young,  rich?  What  was  the 
use  of  having  married  a  man  she  had  loved  ?  What  was 
the  use?    What  was  the  use? 

"What's  the  use?"  she  sobbed  the  words  out  again 
and  again. 

For  the  man  was  a  fool,  Fritz  was  a  fool.  She  thought 
of  him  at  that  moment  as  half-witted.  For  he  saw  noth- 
ing, nothing.  He  was  a  blind  man  led  by  his  animal 
passions,  and  when  at  last  he  was  forced  to  see,  when 
she  came  and,  as  it  were,  lifted  his  eyelids  with  her 
fingers,  and  said  to  him,  "Look!  Look  at  what  has  been 
done  to  me!"  he  could  only  be  angry  for  himself,  because 
the  insult  had  attainted  him,  because  she  happened  to  be 
his  wife.  It  seemed  to  her,  while  she  was  crying  there, 
that  stupidity  combined  with  egoism  must  have  the  power 
to  kill  even  that  vital,  enduring  thing,  a  woman's  love. 
She  had  begun  to  idealise  Fritz,  but  how  could  she  go  on 
idealising  him?  And  she  began  for  the  first  time  really 
to  understand — or  to  begin  to  understand — that  there 
actually  was  something  within  her  which  was  hungry, 
unsatisfied,  something  which  was  not  animal  but  mental, 
or  was  it  spiritual? — something  not  sensual,  not  cerebral, 
which  cried  aloud  for  sustenance.  And  this  something 
did  not,  could  never,  cry  to  Fritz.  It  knew  he  could  not 
give  it  what  it  wanted.  Then  to  whom  did  it  cry?  She 
did  not  know. 

Presently  she  grew  calmer  and  sat  up  on  the  bed,  look- 
ing straight  before  her.  Her  mind  returned  upon  itself. 
She  seemed  to  go  back  to  that  point  of  time,  just  before 
Lady  Cardington  called,  when  she  had  the  programme 
in  her  hand  and  thought  of  the  gossamer  threads  that 
were  as  iron  in  her  life,  and  in  such  lives  as  hers;  then 
to  move  on  to  that  other  point  of  time  when  she  laid 
down  the  programme,  sighed,  and  was  conscious  of  a 

229 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

violent  desire  for  release,  for  something-  to  come  and  lift 
a  powerful  hand  and  brush  away  the  spider's  web. 

But  now,  returning  to  this  further  moment  in  her  life, 
she  asked  herself  what  would  be  left  to  her  if  the  spider's 
web  were  gone?  The  believers  in  the  angel?  Perhaps 
she  no  longer  included  Fritz  among  them.  The  impo- 
tence of  his  mind  seemed  to  her  an  impotence  of  heart 
just  then.  He  was  to  her  like  a  numbed  creature,  in- 
capable of  movement,  incapable  of  thought,  incapable  of 
belief.  Credulity — yes,  but  not  belief.  And  so,  when 
she  looked  at  the  believers,  she  saw  but  a  few  people: 
Robin  Pierce,  Sir  Donald — whom  else? 

And  then  she  heard,  as  if  far  off,  the  song  she  would 
sing  on  the  morrow  at  Manchester  House. 

"Torna  in  fior  di  giovinezza 
Isaotta  Blanzesmano, 
Dice:  Tutto  al  mondo  h  vano: 
N^  Tamore  ogni  dolcezza." 

And  then  she  cried  again,  but  no  longer  frantically; 
quietly,  with  a  sort  of  childish  despair  and  confusion. 
In  her  heart  there  had  opened  a  dark  space,  a  gulf.  She 
peered  into  it  and  heard,  deep  down  in  it,  hollow  echoes 
resounding,  and  she  recoiled  from  a  vision  of  emptiness. 
******* 

On  the  following  day  Fritz  drove  her  himself  to  Man- 
chester House  in  a  new  motor  he  had  recently  bought. 
All  the  morning  he  had  stayed  at  home  and  fidgeted 
about  the  house.  It  was  obvious  to  his  wife  that  he  was 
in  an  unusually  distracted  frame  of  mind.  He  wanted 
to  tell  her  something,  yet  could  not  do  so.  She  saw  that 
plainly,  and  she  felt  almost  certain  that  since  their  inter- 
view of  the  previous  day  he  had  seen  Miss  Schley.  She 
fancied  that  there  had  been  a  scene  of  some  kind  between 
them,  and  she  guessed  that  Fritz  had  been  hopelessly 

230 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

worsted  in  it  and  was  very  sorry  for  himself.  There  was 
a  beaten  look  in  his  face,  a  very  different  look  from 
that  which  had  startled  her  when  he  came  into  her  room 
after  thrashing  Leo  Ulford.  Tliis  time,  however,  her 
curiosity  was  not  awake,  and  the  fact  that  it  was  not 
awake  marked  a  change  in  her.  She  felt  to-day  as  if  she 
did  not  care  what  Fritz  had  been  doing  or  was  going 
to  do.  She  had  suffered,  she  had  concealed  her  suffer- 
ing, she  had  tried  vulgarly  to  pay  Fritz  out,  she  had 
failed.  At  the  critical  moment  she  had  played  the  woman 
after  he  had  played  the  man.  He  had  thrashed  the  in- 
truder whom  she  was  using  as  a  weapon,  and  she  had 
bathed  his  wounds,  made  much  of  him,  idealised  him. 
She  had  done  what  any  uneducated  street  woman  would 
have  done  for  "her  man."  And  now  she  had  suddenly 
come  to  feel  as  if  there  had  always  been  an  emptiness  in 
her  life,  as  if  Fritz  never  had,  never  could  fill  it.  The 
abruptness  of  the  onset  of  this  new  feeling  confused  her. 
She  did  not  know  that  a  woman  could  be  subject  to  a 
change  of  this  kind.  She  did  not  understand  it,  realise 
what  it  portended,  what  would  result  from  it.  But  she 
felt  that,  for  the  moment,  at  anyrate,  she  could  not  get 
up  any  excitement  about  Fritz,  his  feelings,  his  doings. 
Whenever  she  thought  of  him  she  thought  of  his  blun- 
dering stupidity,  his  blindness,  sensuality  and  egoism. 
No  doubt  she  loved  him.  Only,  to-day,  she  did  not  feel 
as  if  she  loved  him  or  anyone.  Yet  she  did  not  feel  dull. 
On  the  contrary,  she  was  highly  strung,  unusually  sensi- 
tive. What  she  was  most  acutely  conscious  of  was  a 
sensation  of  lonely  excitement,  of  solitary  expectation. 
Fritz  fidgeted  about  the  house,  and  the  fact  that  he  did 
so  gave  her  no  more  concern  than  if  a  little  dog  had  been 
running  to  and  fro.  She  did  not  want  him  to  tell  her 
what  was  the  matter.  On  the  other  hand,  she  did  want 
him  not  to  tell  her.    Simply  she  did  not  care. 

231 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

He  said  nothing.  Perhaps  something  in  her  look,  her 
manner,  kept  him  dumb. 

When  they  were  in  the  motor  on  the  way  to  Manches- 
ter House  he  said, — 

"I  bet  you'll  cut  out  everybody." 

"Oh,  there  are  all  sorts  of  stars." 

"Well,  mind  you  put  'em  all  out." 

It  was  evident  to  her  that  for  some  reason  or  other 
he  was  particularly  anxious  she  should  shine  that  after- 
noon. She  meant  to.  She  knew  she  was  going  to.  But 
she  had  no  desire  to  shine  in  order  to  gratify  Fritz's 
egoism.  Probably  he  had  just  had  a  quarrel  with  Miss 
Schley  and  wanted  to  punish  her  through  his  wife.  The 
idea  was  not  a  pretty  one.  Unfortunately  that  circum- 
stance did  not  ensure  its  not  being  a  true  one. 

"Mind  you  do,  eh?"  reiterated  her  husband,  giving 
the  steering  wheel  a  twist  and  turning  the  car  up  Hamil- 
ton Place. 

"I  shall  try  to  sing  well,  naturally,"  she  replied  coldly. 
"I  always  do." 

"Of  course — I  know." 

There  was  something  aimost  servile  in  his  manner,  an 
anxiety  which  was  quite  foreign  to  it  as  a  rule. 

"That's  a  stunnin'  dress,"  he  added.  "Keep  your  cloak 
well  over  it." 

She  said  nothing. 

"What's  the  row?"  he  asked.    "Anythin'  up?" 

"I'm  thinking  over  my  songs." 

"Oh,  I  see." 

She  had  silenced  him  for  the  moment. 

Very  soon  they  were  in  a  long  line  of  carriages  and 
motors  moving  slowly  towards  Manchester  House. 

"Goin'  to  be  a  deuce  of  a  crowd,"  said  Fritz. 

"Naturally." 

"Wonder  who'll  be  there?" 
232 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Everybody  who's  still  in  town." 

She  bowed  to  a  man  in  a  hansom. 

"Who's  that?" 

'Tlangon.     He's  singing." 

"How  long'll  it  be  before  you  come  on?" 

"Quite  an  hour,  I  think." 

"Better  than  bein'  first,  isn't  it?" 

"Of  course." 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  sing?" 

"Oh—" 

She  was  about  to  say  something  impatient  about  his 
not  knowing  one  tune  from  another,  but  she  checked 
herself,  and  answered  quietly, — 

"An  Italian  song  and  a  French  song." 

"What  about?" 

"Take  care  of  that  carriage  in  front — love." 

He  looked  at  her  sideways. 

"You're  the  one  to  sing  about  that,"  he  said. 

She  felt  that  he  was  admiring  her  beauty  as  if  it  were 
new  to  him.    She  did  not  care. 

At  last  they  reached  Manchester  House.  Fritz's  place 
was  taken  by  his  chauffeur,  and  they  got  out.  The  crowd 
was  enormous.  Many  people  recognised  Lady  Holme 
and  greeted  her.  Others,  who  did  not  know  her  per- 
sonally, looked  at  her  with  open  curiosity.  A  powdered 
footman  came  to  show  her  to  the  improvised  artists' 
room.    Fritz  prepared  to  follow. 

"Aren't  you  going  into  the  concert-room?"  she  said. 

"Presently." 

"But—" 

"I'll  take  you  up  first." 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  "But  it  isn't  the  least  neces- 
sary." 

He  only  stuck  out  his  under  jaw.  She  realised  that 
Miss  Schley  would  be  in  the  artists'  room  and  said  noth- 

233 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

ing  more.  They  made  their  way  very  slowly  to  the  great 
landing  on  the  first  floor  of  the  house,  from  which  a 
maze  of  reception-rooms  opened.  Mr  and  Mrs  Ongrin, 
the  immensely  rich  Australians  who  were  the  owners  of 
the  house,  were  standing  there  ready  to  receive  the  two 
Royal  Princesses  who  were  expected,  and  Mr  Ongrin 
took  from  a  basket  on  a  table  beside  him  a  great  bouquet 
of  honey-coloured  roses,  and  offered  it  to  Lady  Holme 
with  a  hearty  word  of  thanks  to  her  for  singing. 

She  took  the  roses  with  a  look  of  pleasure. 

"How  sweet  of  you!    They  suit  my  song,"  she  said. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  Italian  song. 

Mr  Ongrin,  who  was  a  large,  loose-limbed  man,  with 
straw-coloured  hair  turning  grey,  and  a  broken  nose, 
looked  genial  and  confused,  and  she  went  on,  still  closely 
followed  by  Fritz. 

"This  is  the  room  for  the  performers,  my  lady,"  said 
the  footman,  showing  them  into  a  large,  green  drawing- 
room,  with  folding  doors  at  one  end  shut  off  by  an 
immense  screen. 

"Is  the  platform  behind  the  screen?"  Lady  Holme 
asked. 

"Yes,  my  lady.  The  ladies'  cloak-room  is  on  the  left — 
that  door,  my  lady." 

There  were  already  several  people  in  the  room,  stand- 
ing about  and  looking  tentative.  Lady  Holme  knew 
most  of  them.  One  was  a  French  actor  who  was  going 
to  give  a  monologue ;  very  short,  very  stout,  very  intelli- 
gent-looking, with  a  face  that  seemed  almost  too  flexible 
to  be  human.  Two  or  three  were  singers  from  the  Opera 
House.  Another  was  an  aristocratic  amateur,  an  intimate 
friend  of  Lady  Holme's,  who  had  a  beautiful  contralto 
voice.  Several  of  the  committee  were  tbere,  too,  making 
themselves  agreeable  to  the  artists.  Lady  Holme  began 
to   speak  to  the  French   actor.     Fritz  stood  by.     He 

234 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

scarcely  understood  a  word  of  French,  and  always  looked 
rather  contemptuous  when  it  was  talked  in  his  presence. 
The  French  actor  appealed  to  him  on  some  point  in  the 
conversation.  He  straddled  his  legs,  uttered  a  loud,  "Oh, 
wee!    Oh,  wee!  wee!"  and  laughed. 

"Lord  Holme  est  tout  a  fait  de  mon  avis!"  cried  the 
comedian. 

"Evidemment,"  she  answered,  wishing  Fritz  would  go. 
Miss  Schley  had  not  come  yet.  She  was  certain  to  be 
effectively  late,  as  she  had  been  at  Mrs  Wolfstein's  lunch- 
party.  Lady  Holme  did  not  feel  as  if  she  cared  whether 
she  came  early  or  late,  whether  she  were  there  or  not. 
She  was  still  companioned  by  her  curious  sensation  of 
the  morning,  a  sensation  of  odd  loneliness  and  detach- 
ment, combined  with  excitement — but  an  excitement 
which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  present.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  if  she  were  a  person  leaning  out  of  a  window  and 
looking  eagerly  along  a  road.  People  were  in  the  room 
behind  her,  voices  were  speaking,  things  were  happening 
there,  but  they  had  nothing  to  do  with  her.  That  which 
had  to  do  with  her  was  coming  down  the  road.  She 
could  not  see  yet  what  it  was,  but  she  could  hear  the  faint 
sound  of  its  approach. 

The  comedian  spoke  to  someone  else.  She  went  into 
the  cloak-room  and  took  off  her  motor  cloak.  As  she 
glanced  into  a  mirror  to  see  if  all  the  details  of  her  gown 
were  perfect,  she  was  struck  by  the  expression  on  her 
face,  as  if  she  had  seen  it  on  the  face  of  a  stranger.  For  a 
moment  she  looked  at  herself  as  at  a  stranger,  seeing  her 
beauty  with  a  curious  detachment,  and  admiring  it  with- 
out personal  vanity  or  egoism,  or  any  small,  triumphant 
feeling.  Yet  it  was  not  her  beauty  which  fascinated  her 
eyes,  but  an  imaginative  look  in  them  and  in  the  whole 
face.  For  the  first  time  she  fully  realised  why  she  had  a 
curious,  an  evocative,  influence  on  certain  people,  why 

235 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

she  called  the  hidden  children  of  the  secret  places  of  their 
souls,  why  those  children  heard,  and  stretched  out  their 
hands,  and  lifted  their  eyes  and  opened  their  lips. 

There  was  a  summoning,  and  yet  a  distant  expression 
in  her  eyes.  She  saw  it  herself.  They  were  like  eyes 
that  had  looked  on  magic,  that  would  look  on  magic 
again. 

A  maid  came  to  help  her.  In  a  moment  she  had  picked 
up  her  bouquet  of  roses  and  her  music-case,  and  was 
back  in  the  green  drawing-room. 

There  were  more  people  in  it  now.  Fritz  was  still 
hovering  about  looking  remarkably  out  of  place  and 
strangely  ill  at  ease.  To-day  his  usual  imperturbable 
self-confidence  had  certainly  deserted  him.  He  spoke 
to  people  but  his  eyes  were  on  the  door.  Lady  Holme 
knew  that  he  was  waiting  for  Miss  Schley.  She  felt  a 
sort  of  vague  pity  for  his  uneasiness.  It  was  time  for  the 
concert  to  begin,  but  the  Princesses  had  not  yet  arrived, 
A  murmur  of  many  voices  came  from  the  hidden  room 
beyond  the  screen  where  the  audience  was  assembled. 
Several  of  the  performers  began  to  look  rather  strung 
up.  They  smiled  and  talked  with  slightly  more  vivacity 
than  was  quite  natural  in  them.  One  or  two  of  the 
singers  glanced  over  their  songs,  and  pointed  out  certain 
efifects  they  meant  to  make  to  the  principal  accompanist, 
an  abnormally  thin  boy  with  thick  dark  hair  and  flushed 
cheeks.  He  expressed  comprehension,  emphasising  it  by 
finger-taps  on  the  music  and  a  continual,  "I  see!  I  see!" 
Two  or  three  of  the  members  of  the  committee  looked 
at  their  watches,  and  the  murmur  of  conversation  in  the 
hidden  concert-room  rose  into  a  dull  roar. 

Lady  Holme  sat  down  on  a  sofa.  Sometimes  when 
she  was  going  to  sing  she  felt  nervous.  There  are  very 
few  really  accomplished  artists  who  do  not.  But  to-day 
she  was  not  at  all  nervous.    She  knew  she  was  going  to 

236 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

do  well — as  well  as  when  she  sang  to  Lady  Cardington, 
even  better.  She  felt  almost  as  if  she  were  made  of 
music,  as  if  music  were  part  of  her,  ran  in  her  veins  like 
blood,  shone  in  her  eyes  like  light,  beat  in  her  heart  like 
the  pulse  of  life.  But  she  felt  also  as  if  she  were  still 
at  a  window,  looking  down  a  road,  and  listening  to  the 
sound  of  an  approach. 

"Did  you  see  him?" 

A  lady  near  her  was  speaking  to  a  friend. 

"Yes.  Doesn't  he  look  shocking?  Such  an  altera- 
tion!" 

"Poor  fellow !    I  wonder  he  cares  to  go  about." 

"And  he's  so  clever.  He  helped  me  in  a  concert  once 
— the  Gordon  boys,  you  know — and  I  assure  you — " 

She  did  not  catch  anything  more,  but  she  felt  a  con- 
viction that  they  were  speaking  of  Rupert  Carey,  and 
that  he  must  be  in  the  concert-room.  Poor  Carey!  She 
thought  of  the  Arkell  House  ball,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
Then  someone  spoke  to  her.  A  moment  later  Miss  Schley 
came  slowly  into  the  room,  accompanied  by  a  very  small, 
wiry-looking  old  woman,  dreadfully  dressed,  and  by  Leo 
Ulford,  who  was  carrying  a  bouquet  of  red  carnations. 
The  kind  care  of  Mr  Ongrin  had  provided  a  bouquet  for 
each  lady  who  was  performing. 

As  Leo  came  in  he  looked  round  swiftly,  furtively.  He 
saw  Fritz,  and  a  flush  went  over  his  face.  Then  Lady 
Holme  saw  him  look  at  her  with  a  scowl,  exactly  like 
the  scowl  of  an  evil-tempered  schoolboy.  She  bowed  to 
him  slightly.  He  ignored  the  recognition,  and  spoke  to 
Miss  Schley  with  a  heavy  assumption  of  ignominious 
devotion  and  intimacy.  Lady  Holme  could  scarcely  help 
smiling.  She  read  the  little  story  very  plainly — the  little 
common  story  of  Leo's  desire  to  take  a  revenge  for  his 
thrashing  fitting  in  with  some  similar  desire  of  Miss 
Schley's;  on  her  part  probably  a  wish  to  punish  Fritz 

^17 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

for  having  ventured  to  say  something  about  her  impudent 
mimicry  of  his  wiie.  Easy  to  read  it  was;  common- 
minded,  common-hearted  humanity  in  full  sail  to  petty 
triumph,  petty  revenge.  But  all  this  was  taking  place  in 
the  room  behind  Lady  Holme,  and  she  was  leaning  from 
the  window  watching  the  white  road.  But  Fritz?  She 
glanced  round  the  drawing-room  and  saw  that  he  was 
moved  by  the  story  as  they  had  meant  him  to  be  moved. 
The  angry  jealousy  of  the  primitive,  sensual  man  was 
aflame.  His  possessive  sense,  one  of  the  strongest,  if  not 
the  strongest,  of  such  a  man's  senses,  was  outraged.  And 
he  showed  it. 

He  was  standing  with  a  middle-aged  lady,  one  of  the 
committee,  but  he  had  ceased  from  talking  to  her,  and 
was  staring  at  Miss  Schley  and  Leo  with  the  peculiar 
inflated  look  on  his  face  that  was  characteristic  of  him 
when  his  passions  were  fully  roused.  Every  feature 
seemed  to  swell  and  become  bloated,  as  if  under  the 
influence  of  a  disease  or  physical  seizure.  The  middle- 
aged  lady  looked  at  him  with  obvious  astonishment,  then 
turned  away  and  spoke  to  the  French  actor. 

Miss  Schley  moved  slowly  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 
She  did  not  seem  to  see  Fritz.  Two  or  three  people 
came  to  speak  to  her.  She  smiled  but  did  not  say  much. 
The  little  wiry-looking  old  lady,  her  mother  from  Susan- 
ville,  stood  by  her  in  an  efifaced  manner,  and  Leo,  hold- 
ing the  bouquet,  remained  close  beside  her,  standing 
over  her  in  his  impudent  fashion  like  a  privileged  guar- 
dian and  lover. 

Lady  Holme  was  watching  Fritz.  The  necessary  sup- 
pression of  his  anger  at  such  a  moment,  and  in  such  sur- 
roundings, suppression  of  any  demonstration  of  it  at  least, 
was  evidently  torturing  him.  Someone — a  man — spoke 
to  him.  His  wife  saw  that  he  seemed  to  choke  some- 
thing down  before  he  could  get  out  a  word  in  reply. 

238 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

Directly  he  had  answered  he  moved  away  from  the  man 
towards  Miss  Schley,  but  he  did  not  go  up  to  her.  He 
did  not  trust  himself  to  do  that.  He  stood  still  again, 
staring.  Leo  bent  protectively  over  the  American.  She 
smiled  at  him  demurely  beneath  lowered  eyelids.  The 
little  old  lady  shook  out  her  rusty  black  dress  and  as- 
sumed an  absurd  air  of  social  sprightliness,  making  a 
mouth  bunched  up  like  an  old-fashioned  purse  sharply 
drawn  together  by  a  string. 

There  was  a  sudden  lull  in  the  roar  of  conversation 
from  the  concert-room,  succeeded  by  a  wide  rustling 
noise.  The  Princesses  had  at  length  arrived,  and  the 
audience  was  standing  up  as  they  came  in  and  took  their 
seats.  After  a  brief  silence  the  rustling  noise  was  re- 
newed as  the  audience  sat  down  again.  Then  the  pianist 
hurried  up  to  a  grave-looking  girl  who  was  tenderly 
holding  a  violin,  took  her  hand  and  led  her  away  behind 
the  screen.  A  moment  later  the  opening  bars  of  a  duet 
were  audible. 

The  people  in  the  artists'  room  began  to  sit  down  with 
a  slight  air  of  resignation.  The  French  actor  looked  at 
the  very  pointed  toes  of  his  varnished  boots  and  com- 
posed his  india-rubber  features  into  a  solemn,  almost 
priestly,  expression.  Lady  Holme  went  over  to  a  sofa 
near  the  screen  and  listened  attentively  to  the  duet,  but 
from  time  to  time  she  glanced  towards  the  middle  of  the 
room  where  Miss  Schley  was  still  calmly  standing  up 
with  Leo  holding  the  bouquet.  The  mother  from  Susan- 
ville  had  subsided  on  a  small  chair  with  gilt  legs,  spread 
out  her  meagre  gown,  and  assumed  the  aspect  of  a  roost- 
ing bird  at  twilight.  Fritz  stood  up  with  his  back  against 
the  wall,  staring  at  Miss  Schley.  His  face  still  looked 
bloated.  Presently  Miss  Schley  glanced  at  him,  as  if  by 
accident,  looked  surprised  at  seeing  him  there,  and 
nodded  demurely.     He  made  a  movement  forward  from 

239 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

the  wall,  but  she  immediately  began  to  whisper  to  Leo 
Ulford,  and  after  remaining  for  a  moment  in  an  attitude 
of  angry  hesitation  he  moved  backward  again.  His  face 
flushed  scarlet. 

Lady  Holme  realised  that  he  was  making  a  fool  of 
himself.  She  saw  several  pairs  of  eyes  turned  towards 
him,  slight  smiles  appearing  on  several  faces.  The 
French  actor  had  begun  to  watch  him  with  an  expres- 
sion of  close  criticism,  as  a  stage  manager  watches  an 
actor  at  rehearsal.  But  she  did  not  feel  as  if  she  cared 
what  Fritz  was  doing.  The  sound  of  the  violin  had 
emphasised  her  odd  sensation  of  having  nothing  to  do 
with  what  was  going  on  in  the  room.  Just  for  one  hour 
Fritz's  conduct  could  not  aflfect  her. 

Very  soon  people  began  to  whisper  round  her.  Artists 
find  it  very  difficult  to  listen  to  other  artists  on  these 
occasions.  In  a  minute  or  two  almost  everybody  was 
speaking  with  an  air  of  mystery.  Miss  Schley  put  her  lips 
to  Leo  Ulford's  ear.  Evidently  she  had  a  great  deal  to 
say  to  him.  He  began  to  pout  his  lips  in  smiles.  They 
both  looked  across  at  Lord  Holme.  Then  Miss  Schley 
went  on  murmuring  words  into  Leo's  ear  and  Leo  began 
to  shake  with  silent  laughter.  Lord  Holme  clenched  his 
hands  at  his  sides.  The  French  actor,  still  watching  him 
closely,  put  up  a  fat  forefinger  and  meditatively  traced 
the  outline  of  his  own  profile,  pushing  out  his  large,  flex- 
ible lips  when  the  finger  was  drawing  near  to  them. 
The  whole  room  was  full  of  the  tickling  noise  of  half- 
whispered  conversation. 

Presently  the  music  stopped.  Instantly  the  tickling 
noise  stopped,  too.  There  was  languid  applause — the 
applause  of  smart  people  on  a  summer  afternoon — from 
beyond  the  screen.  Then  the  grave  girl  reappeared,  look- 
ing graver  and  hot.  Those  who  had  been  busily  talking 
while  she  was  playing  gathered  round  her  to  express 

240 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

their  delight  in  her  kind  accompaniment.  The  pianist 
hurried  up  to  a  stout  man  with  a  low,  turned-down  collar 
and  a  white  satin  tie,  whose  double  chin,  and  general 
air  of  rather  fatuous  prosperity,  proclaimed  him  the  pos- 
sessor of  a  tenor  voice,  and  Miss  Schley  walked  quietly, 
but  with  determination,  up  to  where  Lady  Holme  was 
sitting  and  took  a  seat  beside  her. 

"Glad  to  meet  you  again,"  she  drawled. 

She  called  Leo  Ulford  with  a  sharp  nod.  He  hesi- 
tated, and  began  to  look  supremely  uncomfortable,  twist- 
ing the  bouquet  of  carnations  round  and  round  in  ner- 
vous hands. 

"I've  been  simply  expiring  all  season  to  hear  you  sing," 
Miss  Schley  continued. 

"How  sweet  of  you!" 

"That  is  so.    Mr  Ulford,  please  bring  my  flowers." 

Leo  had  no  alternative  but  to  obey.  He  came  slowly 
towards  the  sofa,  while  the  tenor  and  the  pianist  vanished 
behind  the  screen.  That  he  was  sufficiently  sensitive  to 
be  conscious  of  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation  Miss 
Schley  had  pleasantly  contrived  was  very  apparent.  He 
glowered  upon  Lady  Holme,  forcing  his  boyish  face  to 
assume  a  coarsely-determined  and  indifferent  expression. 
But  somehow  the  body,  which  she  knew  her  husband 
had  thrashed,  looked  all  the  time  as  if  it  were  being 
thrashed  again. 

The  voice  of  the  hidden  tenor  arose  in  "Celeste  AidaT 
and  Lady  Holme  listened  with  an  air  of  definite  atten- 
tion, taking  no  notice  of  Leo.  The  music  gave  her  a 
perfect  excuse  for  ignoring  him.  But  Miss  Schley  did 
not  intend  to  be  interfered  with  by  anything  so  easily 
trampled  upon  as  an  art.  Speaking  in  her  most  clear  and 
choir-boyish  tones,  she  said  to  Leo  Ulford, — 

"Sit  down,  Mr  Ulford.    You  fidget  me  standing." 

Then  turning  again  to  Lady  Holme  she  continued, — 
241 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

"Mr  Ulford's  been  so  lovely  and  kind.  He  came  up 
all  the  way  from  Hertfordshire  just  to  take  care  of 
marmar  and  me  to-day.  Marmar's  fair  and  crazy  about 
him.    She  says  he's  the  most  lovely  feller  in  Europe." 

Leo  twisted  the  bouquet.  He  was  sitting  now  on 
the  edge  of  a  chair,  and  shooting  furtive  glances  in  the 
direction  of  Lord  Holme,  who  had  begun  to  look  ex- 
tremely stupid,  overwhelmed  by  the  cool  impudence  of 
the  American. 

"Your  husband  looks  as  if  he  were  perched  around 
on  a  keg  of  rattlesnakes,"  continued  Miss  Schley,  her 
clear  voice  mingling  with  the  passionate  tenor  cry, 
"Celeste  A'ida!"    "Ain't  he  feeling  well  to-day?" 

"I  believe  he  is  perfectly  well,"  said  Lady  Holme,  in 
a  very  low  voice. 

It  was  odd,  perhaps,  but  she  did  not  feel  at  all  angry, 
embarrassed,  or  even  slightly  annoyed,  by  Miss  Schley's 
very  deliberate  attempt  to  distress  her.  Of  course  she 
understood  perfectly  what  had  happened  and  was  happen- 
ing. Fritz  had  spoken  to  the  actress  about  her  mimicry 
of  his  wife,  had  probably  spoken  blunderingly,  angrily. 
Miss  Schley  was  secretly  furious  at  his  having  found 
out  what  she  had  been  doing,  still  more  furious  at  his 
having  dared  to  criticise  any  proceeding  of  hers.  To 
revenge  herself  at  one  stroke  on  both  Lord  and  Lady 
Holme  she  had  turned  to  Leo  Ulford,  whose  destiny  it 
evidently  was  to  be  used  as  a  weapon  against  others. 
Long  ago  Lady  Holme  had  distracted  Leo's  wandering 
glances  from  the  American  and  fixed  them  on  herself. 
With  the  instinct  to  be  common  of  an  utterly  common 
nature  Miss  Schley  had  resolved  to  awake  a  double  jeal- 
ousy— of  husband  and  wife — by  exhibiting  Leo  Ulford 
as  her  ami  intime,  perhaps  as  the  latest  victim  to  her 
fascination.    It  was  the  vulgar  action  of  a  vulgar  woman, 

242 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

but  it  failed  of  its  effect  in  one  direction.  Lord  Holme 
was  stirred,  but  Lady  Holme  was  utterly  indifferent. 
Miss  Schley's  quick  instinct  told  her  so  and  she  was 
puzzled.  She  did  not  understand  Lady  Holme.  That 
was  scarcely  strange,  for  to-day  Lady  Holme  did  not 
understand  herself.  The  curious  mental  detachment  of 
which  she  had  been  conscious  for  some  time  had  in- 
creased until  it  began  surely  to  link  itself  with  something 
physical,  something  sympathetic  in  the  body  that  replied 
to  it.  She  asked  herself  whether  the  angel  were  spread- 
ing her  wings  at  last.  All  the  small,  sordid  details  of 
which  lives  lived  in  society,  lives  such  as  hers,  are  full, 
details  which  assume  often  an  extraordinary  importance, 
a  significance  like  that  of  molecules  seen  through  a 
magnifying  glass,  had  suddenly  become  to  her  as  noth- 
ing. A  profound  indifference  had  softly  invaded  her 
towards  the  petty  side  of  life.  Miss  Schley,  Leo  Ulford, 
even  Fritz  in  his  suppressed  rage  and  jealousy  of  a  male 
animal  openly  trampled  upon,  had  nothing  to  do  with 
her,  could  have  no  effect  on  her  at  this  moment.  She 
remembered  that  she  had  once  sighed  for  release.  Well, 
it  seemed  to  her  as  if  release  were  at  hand. 

The  tenor  finished  his  romance.  Again  the  muffled 
applause  sounded.  As  the  singer  came  from  behind  the 
screen,  wiping  beads  of  perspiration  from  his  self-satisfied 
face,  Lady  Holme  got  up  and  congratulated  him.  Then 
she  crossed  over  to  her  husband. 

"Why  don't  you  go  into  the  concert-room,  Fritz? 
You're  missing  everything,  and  you're  only  in  the  way 
here." 

She  did  not  speak  unkindly.  He  said  nothing,  only 
cleared  his  throat. 

"Go  in,"  she  said.  "I  should  like  to  have  you  there 
while  I  am  singing." 

He  cleared  his  throat  again. 

243 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Right  you  are." 

He  stared  into  her  eyes  with  a  sort  of  savage  admira- 
tion. 

"Cut  her  out,"  he  said.  "Cut  her  out!  You  can,  and — 
damn  her — she  deserves  it." 

Then  he  turned  and  went  out. 

Lady  Holme  felt  rather  sick  for  a  moment.  She  knew 
she  was  going  to  sing  well,  she  wished  to  sing  well — 
but  not  in  order  to  punish  Miss  Schley  for  having  pun- 
ished Fritz.  Was  everything  she  did  to  accomplish  some 
sordid  result?  Was  even  her  singing — the  one  thing  in 
which  Robin  Pierce  and  some  others  divined  a  hidden 
truth  that  was  beautiful — was  even  that  to  play  its  con- 
temptible part  in  the  social  drama  in  which  she  was  so 
inextricably  entangled?  Those  gossamer  threads  were 
iron  strands  indeed. 

Someone  else  was  singing — her  friend  with  the  con- 
tralto voice. 

She  sat  down  alone  in  a  corner.  Presently  the  French 
actor  began  to  give  one  of  his  famous  monologues.  She 
heard  his  wonderfully  varied  elocution,  his  voice — in- 
telligence made  audible  and  dashed  with  flying  lights  of 
humour — rising  and  falling  subtly,  yet  always  with  a 
curious  sound  of  inevitable  simplicity.  She  heard  gentle 
titterings  from  the  concealed  audience,  then  a  definite 
laugh,  then  a  peal  of  laughter  quite  gloriously  indiscreet. 
The  people  were  waking  up.  And  she  felt  as  if  they 
were  being  prepared  for  her.  But  why  had  Fritz  looked 
like  that,  spoken  like  that?  It  seemed  to  spoil  every- 
thing. To-day  she  felt  too  far  away  from — too  far  be- 
yond, that  was  the  truth — Miss  Schley  to  want  to  enter 
into  any  rivalry  with  her.  She  wished  very  much  that 
she  had  been  placed  first  on  the  programme.  Then  there 
could  have  been  no  question  of  her  cutting  out  the 
American. 

244 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

As  she  was  thinking  this  Miss  Schley  slowly  crossed 
the  room  and  came  up  to  her. 

"Lady  Holme,"  she  said,  "I  come  next." 

"Do  you?" 

"I  do.    And  then  you  follow  after." 

"Well?" 

"Say,  would  you  mind  changing  it?  It  don't  do  to 
have  two  recitations  one  after  the  other.  There  ought 
to  be  something  different  in  between." 

Lady  Holme  looked  at  her  quite  eagerly,  almost  with 
gratitude. 

"I'll  sing  next,"  she  said  quickly. 

"Much  obliged  to  you,  I'm  sure.  You're  perfectly 
sweet," 

Lady  Holme  saw  again  a  faint  look  of  surprise  on  the 
American's  white  face,  succeeded  instantly  by  an  ex- 
pression of  satisfaction.  She  realised  that  Miss  Schley 
had  some  hidden  disagreeable  reason  for  her  request. 
She  even  guessed  what  it  was.  But  she  only  felt  glad 
that,  whatever  happened,  no  one  could  accuse  her  of 
trying  to  efface  any  effect  made  by  Miss  Schley  upon  the 
audience.  As  she  sang  before  the  "Imitations,"  if  any 
effect  were  to  be  effaced  it  must  be  her  own.  The  voice 
of  the  French  actor  ceased,  almost  drowned  in  a  ripple 
of  laughter,  a  burst  of  quite  warm  applause.  He  re- 
appeared looking  calm  and  magisterial.  The  applause 
continued,  and  he  had  to  go  back  and  bow  his  thanks. 
The  tenor,  who  had  not  been  recalled,  looked  cross  and 
made  a  movement  of  his  double  chin  that  suggested 
bridling. 

"Now,  Miss  Schley!"  said  the  pianist.  "You  come 
now!" 

"Lady  Holme  has  very  kindly  consented  to  go  first," 
she  replied. 

Then  she  turned  to  the  French  actor  and,  in  atrocious 

245 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

but  very  self-possessed  French,  began  to  congratulate 
him  on  his  performance. 

"Oh,  well — "  the  pianist  hurried  up  to  Lady  Holme. 
"You  have  really — very  well  then — these  are  the  songs! 
Which  do  you  sing  first?    Very  hot,  isn't  it?" 

He  wiped  his  long  fingers  with  a  silk  pocket-hand- 
kerchief and  took  the  music  she  offered  to  him. 

"The  Princesses  seem  very  pleased,"  he  added.  "Mar- 
teau — charming  composer,  yes — very  pleased  indeed. 
Which  one?    'C^est  toi'f    Certainly,  certainly." 

He  wiped  his  hands  again  and  held  out  one  to  lead 
Lady  Holme  to  the  platform.  But  she  ignored  it  gently 
and  went  on  alone.  He  followed,  carrying  the  music 
and  perspiring.  As  they  disappeared  Miss  Schley  got 
up  and  moved  to  a  chair  close  by  the  screen  that  hid 
the  platform.  She  beckoned  to  Leo  Ulford  and  he  fol- 
lowed her. 

As  Lady  Holme  stepped  on  to  the  low  platform,  edged 
with  a  bank  of  flowers,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  with  one 
glance  she  saw  everyone  in  the  crowded  room,  and  felt 
at  least  something  swiftly  of  each  one's  feeling. 

The  two  Princesses  sat  together  looking  kind  and 
serious.  As  she  curtseyed  to  them  they  bowed  to  her 
and  smiled.  Behind  them  she  saw  a  compact  mass  of 
acquaintances:  Lady  Cardington  sitting  with  Sir  Donald 
and  looking  terribly  sad,  even  self-conscious,  yet  eager; 
Mrs  Wolfstein  with  Mr  Laycock;  Mr  Bry,  his  eyeglass 
fixed,  a  white  carnation  in  his  coat;  Lady  Manby  laugh- 
ing with  a  fat  old  man  who  wore  a  fez,  and  many  others. 
At  the  back  she  saw  Fritz  standing  up  and  staring  at 
her  with  eyes  that  seemed  almost  to  cry,  "Cut  her  out!" 
And  in  the  fourth  row  she  saw  a  dreary,  even  a  horrible, 
sight — Rupert  Carey's  face,  disfigured  by  the  vice  which 
was  surely  destroying  him,  red,  bloated,  dreadfully 
coarsened,  spotted.    From  the  midst  of  the  wreckage  of 

246 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

the  flesh  his  strange  eyes  looked  out  with  a  vivid  ex- 
pression of  hopelessness.  Yet  in  them  burned  fires,  and 
in  fire  there  is  an  essence  of  fierce  purity.  The  soul 
in  those  eyes  seemed  longing  to  burn  up  the 
corruption  of  his  body,  longing  to  destroy  the  ruined 
temple,  longing  to  speak  and  say,  "I  am  in  prison,  but 
do  not  judge  of  the  prisoner  by  examining  the  filthiness 
of  his  cell." 

As  Lady  Holme  took  in  the  audience  with  a  glance 
there  was  a  rustle  of  paper.  Almost  everyone  was  look- 
ing to  see  if  the  programme  had  been  altered.  Lady 
Holme  saw  that  suddenly  Fritz  had  realised  the  change 
that  had  been  made,  and  what  it  meant.  An  expression 
of  anger  came  into  his  face. 

She  felt  that  she  saw  more  swiftly,  and  saw  into  more 
profoundly  to-day  than  ever  before  in  her  life;  that  she 
had  a  strangely  clear  vision  of  minds  as  well  as  of  faces, 
that  she  was  vivid,  penetrating.  And  she  had  time,  before 
she  began  to  sing,  for  an  odd  thought:  of  the  person 
drowning  who  flashes  back  over  the  ways  of  his  past, 
who  is,  as  it  were,  allowed  one  instant  of  exceptional  life 
before  he  is  handed  over  to  death.  This  thought  was 
clear,  clean  cut  in  her  mind  for  a  moment,  and  she  put 
herself  in  the  sounding  arms  of  the  sea. 

Then  the  pianist  began  his  prelude,  and  she  moved 
a  step  forward  to  the  flowers  and  opened  her  lips  to 
sing. 

She  sang  by  heart  the  little  story  drawn  from  the 
writing  of  Jalalu'd  dinu'r  Rumi.  The  poet  who  had 
taken  it  had  made  a  charming  poem  of  it,  delicate,  fragile, 
and  yet  dramatic  and  touched  with  fervour,  porcelain 
with  firelight  gleaming  on  it  here  and  there.  Lady 
Holme  had  usually  a  power  of  identifying  herself  thor- 
oughly with  what  she  was  singing,  of  concentrating  her- 
self with  ease  upon  it,  and  so  compelling  her  hearers  to 

247 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

be  concentrated  upon  her  subject  and  upon  her.  To-day 
she  was  deeper  down  in  words  and  music,  in  the  Httle 
drama  of  them,  than  ever  before.  She  was  the  man  who 
knocked  at  the  door,  the  loved  one  who  cried  from  within 
the  house.  She  gave  the  reply,  "C'est  moi!"  with  the 
eagerness  of  that  most  eager  of  all  things — Hope.  Then, 
as  she  sang  gravely,  with  tender  rebuke,  "This  house 
cannot  shelter  us  both  together,"  she  was  in  the  heart 
of  love,  that  place  of  understanding.  Afterwards,  as  one 
carried  by  Fate  through  the  sky,  she  was  the  man  set 
down  in  a  desert  place,  fasting,  praying,  educating  him- 
self to  be  more  worthy  of  love.  Then  came  the  return, 
the  question,  "Qui  est  Idf"  the  reply; — reply  of  the  soli- 
tary place,  the  denied  desire,  the  longing  to  mount,  the 
educated  heart — "Cest  toi!'\  the  swiftly-opening  door, 
the  rush  of  feet  that  were  welcome,  of  outstretched  arms 
for  which  waited  a  great  possession. 

Something  within  her  lived  the  song  very  fully  and 
completely.  For  once  she  did  not  think  at  all  of  what 
efifect  she  was  making.  She  was  not  unconscious  of  the 
audience.  She  was  acutely  conscious  of  the  presence  of 
people,  and  of  individuals  whom  she  knew;  of  Fritz,  of 
Lady  Cardington,  Sir  Donald,  even  of  poor,  horrible 
Rupert  Carey.  But  with  the  unusual  consciousness  was 
linked  a  strange  indifference,  a  sense  of  complete  detach- 
ment. And  this  enabled  her  to  live  simultaneously  two 
lives — Lady  Holme's  and  another's.  Who  was  the  other? 
She  did  not  ask,  but  she  felt  as  if  in  that  moment  a 
prisoner  within  her  was  released.  And  yet,  directly  the 
song  was  over  and  the  eager  applause  broke  out,  a  bit- 
terness came  into  her  heart.  Her  sense,  banished  for  the 
moment,  of  her  own  personality  and  circumstances  re- 
turned upon  her,  and  that  "C'est  toiT  of  the  educated 
heart  seemed  suddenly  an  irony  as  she  looked  at  Fritz's 
face.    Had  any  lover  gone  into  the  desert  for  her,  fasted 

248 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

and  prayed  for  her,  learned  for  her  sake  the  right  answer 
to  the  ceaseless  question  that  echoes  in  every  woman's 
heart? 

The  pianist  modulated,  struck  the  chord  of  a  new  key, 
paused,  then  broke  into  a  languid,  honey-sweet  prelude. 
Lady  Holme  sang  the  Italian  song  which  had  made  Lady 
Cardington  cry. 

Afterwards,  she  often  thought  of  her  singing  of  that 
particular  song  on  that  particular  occasion  as  people 
think  of  the  frail  bridges  that  span  the  gulfs  between  one 
fate  and  another.  And  it  seemed  to  her  that  while  she 
was  crossing  this  bridge,  that  was  a  song,  she  had  a  faint 
premonition  of  the  land  that  lay  before  her  on  the  far 
side  of  the  gulf.  She  did  not  see  clearly  any  features 
of  the  landscape,  but  surely  she  saw  that  it  was  different 
from  all  that  she  had  known.  Perhaps  she  deceived  her- 
self. Perhaps  she  fancied  that  she  had  divined  some- 
thing that  was  in  reality  hidden  from  her.  One  thing, 
however,  is  certain — that  she  made  a  very  exceptional 
effect  upon  her  audience.  Many  of  them,  when  later  they 
heard  of  an  incident  that  occurred  within  a  very  short 
time,  felt  almost  awestricken  for  a  moment.  It  seemed 
to  them  that  they  had  been  visited  by  one  of  the  mes- 
sengers— the  forerunners  of  destiny — that  they  had  heard 
a  whispering  voice  say,  "Listen  well!  This  is  the  voice 
of  the  Future  singing." 

Many  people  in  London  on  the  following  day  said, 
"We  felt  in  her  singing  that  something  extraordinary 
must  be  going  to  happen  to  her."  And  some  of  them, 
at  anyrate,  probably  spoke  the  exact  truth. 

Lady  Holme  herself,  while  she  sang  her  second  song, 
really  felt  this  sensation — that  it  was  her  swan  song. 
If  once  we  touch  perfection  we  feel  the  black  everlasting 
curtain  being  drawn  round  us.  We  have  done  what  we 
were  meant  to  do  and  can  do  no  more.     Let  the  race 

249 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

of  men  continue.  Our  course  is  run  out.  To  strive 
beyond  the  goal  is  to  offer  oneself  up  to  the  derision  of 
the  gods.  In  her  song  Lady  Holme  felt  that  suddenly, 
and  with  great  ease,  she  touched  the  perfection  that  it 
was  possible  for  her  to  reach.  She  felt  that,  and  she 
saw  what  she  had  done — in  the  eyes  of  Lady  Cardington 
that  wept,  in  Sir  Donald's  ey^s,  which  had  become  young 
as  the  eyes  of  Spring,  and  in  the  eyes  of  that  poor  pris- 
oner who  was  the  real  Rupert  Carey.  When  she  sang 
the  first  refrain  she  knew. 

"Torna  in  fior  di  giovinezza 
Isaotta  Blanzesmano 
Dice :  Tutto  al  mondo  e  vano: 
Nb  I'amore  ogni  dolcezza." 

She  understood  while  she  sang — she  had  never  under- 
stood before,  nor  could  conceive  why  she  understood 
now — what  love  had  been  to  the  world,  was  being, 
would  be  so  long  as  there  was  a  world.  The  sweetness 
of  love  did  not  merely  present  itself  to  her  imagination, 
but  penetrated  her  soul.  And  that  penetration,  while  it 
carried  with  it  and  infused  through  her  whole  being  a 
delicate  radiance,  that  was  as  the  radiance  of  light  in  the 
midst  of  surrounding  blackness — beams  of  the  moon  in 
a  forest — carried  with  it  also  into  her  heart  a  frightful 
sense  of  individual  isolation,  of  having  missed  the  figure 
of  Truth  in  the  jostling  crowd  of  shams. 

Fritz  stood  there  against  the  wall.  Yes — Fritz.  And 
he  was  savagely  rejoicing  in  the  effect  she  was  making 
upon  the  audience,  because  he  thought,  hoped,  that  it 
would  lessen  the  triumph  of  the  woman  who  was  pun- 
ishing him. 

She  had  missed  the  figure  of  Truth.  That  was  very 
certain.  And  as  she  sang  the  refrain  for  the  last  time 
she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  searching  for  the  form  that 

250 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

must  surely  be  very  wonderful,  searching  for  it  in  the 
many  eyes  that  were  fixed  upon  her. 
She  looked  at  Sir  Donald: 

"Dice:  Tutto  al  mondo  h  vano:  " 
She  looked  at  Rupert  Carey: 

"Nh  I'amore  ogni  dolcezza." 

She  still  looked  at  Carey,  and  the  hideous  wreckage 
of  the  flesh  was  no  longer  visible  to  her.  She  saw  only 
his  burning  eyes. 

Directly  she  had  finished  singing  she  asked  for  her 
motor  cloak.  While  they  were  fetching  it  she  had  to  go 
back  twice  to  the  platform  to  bow  to  the  applause. 

Miss  Schley,  who  was  looking  angry,  said  to  her, — 

"You're  not  going  away  before  my  show?" 

"I  want  to  go  to  the  concert-room,  where  I  can  hear 
better,  and  see,"  she  replied. 

Miss  Schley  looked  at  her  doubtfully,  but  had  to  go 
to  the  platform.  As  she  slowly  disappeared  behind  the 
screen  Lady  Holme  drew  the  cloak  round  her,  pulled 
down  her  veil  and  went  quickly  away. 

She  wanted — more,  she  required — to  be  alone. 

At  the  hall  door  she  sent  a  footman  to  find  the  motor 
car.    When  it  came  up  she  said  to  the  chauffeur, — 

"Take  me  home  quickly  and  then  come  back  for  his 
lordship." 

She  got  in. 

As  the  car  went  off  swiftly  she  noticed  that  the  streets 
were  shining  with  wet. 

"Has  it  been  raining?"  she  asked. 

"Raining  hard,  my  lady." 


251 


XVI 

ON  the  following  morning  the  newpapers  con- 
tained an  account  of  the  concert  at  Manchester 
House.  They  contained  also  an  account  of  a 
motor  accident  which  had  occurred  the  same  afternoon 
between  Hyde  Park  Corner  and  Knightsbridge. 

On  the  wet  pavement  Lord  Holme's  new  car,  which 
was  taking  Lady  Holme  to  Cadogan  Square  at  a  rapid 
pace,  skidded  and  overturned,  pinning  Lady  Holme  be- 
neath it.  While  she  was  on  the  ground  a  hansom  cab 
ran  into  the  car. 

At  their  breakfasts  her  friends,  her  acquaintances,  her 
enemies  and  the  general  public  read  of  her  beautiful 
singing  at  the  concert,  and  read  also  the  following  para- 
graph, which  closed  the  description  of  the  accident: — 

"We  deeply  regret  to  learn  that  Lady  Holme  was 
severely  injured  in  the  face  by  the  accident.  Full  par- 
ticulars have  not  yet  reached  us,  but  we  understand  that 
an  immediate  operation  is  necessary  and  will  be  per- 
formed to-day  by  Mr  Bernard  Crispin,  the  famous  sur- 
geon. Her  ladyship  is  suffering  great  pain,  and  it  is 
feared  that  she  will  be  permanently  disfigured." 

The  fierce  change  which  Lady  Holme  had  longed 
for  was  a  reality.  One  life,  the  life  of  the  siren,  had  come 
to  an  end.  But  the  eyes  of  the  woman  must  still  see 
light.    The  heart  of  the  woman  must  still  beat  on. 

Death  stretched  out  a  hand  in  the  darkness  and  found 
the  hand  of  Birth. 

252 


XVII 

ON  a  warm  but  overcast  day,  at  the  end  of  the 
following  September,  a  woman,  whose  face  was 
completely  hidden  by  a  thick  black  veil,  drove 
up  to  the  boat  landing  of  the  town  of  Com.o  in  a  hired 
victoria.  She  was  alone,  but  behind  her  followed  a 
second  carriage  containing  an  Italian  maid  and  a  large 
quantity  of  luggage.  When  the  victoria  stopped  at  the 
water's  edge  the  woman  got  out  slowly,  and  stood  for  a 
moment,  apparently  looking  for  something.  There  were 
many  boats  ranged  along  the  quay,  their  white  awnings 
thrown  back,  their  oars  resting  on  the  painted  seats. 
Beside  one,  which  was  larger  than  the  others,  soberly 
decorated  in  brown  with  touches  of  gold,  and  furnished 
with  broad  seats  not  unlike  small  armchairs,  stood  two 
bold-looking  Italian  lads  dressed  in  white  sailors'  suits. 
One  of  them,  after  staring  for  a  brief  instant  at  the  veiled 
woman,  went  up  to  her  and  said  in  Italian, — 

"Is  the  signora  for  Casa  Felice?" 

"Yes." 

The  boy  took  off  his  round  hat  with  a  gallant  gesture. 

"The  boat  is  here,  signora." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  brown-and-gold  craft,  and  helped 
the  lady  to  get  into  it.  She  sat  down  on  one  of  the  big 
seats. 

"That  is  the  luggage,"  she  said,  speaking  Italian  in 
a  low  voice,  and  pointing  to  the  second  carriage,  from 
which  the  maid  was  stepping.  The  two  boatmen  has- 
tened towards  it.     In  a  few  minutes  maid  and  luggage 

253 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

were  installed  in  a  big  black  gondola,  oared  by  two 
men  standing  up,  and  the  brown  boat,  with  the  two  lads 
in  white  and  the  veiled  woman,  glided  out  on  the  calm 
water. 

The  day  was  a  grey  dream,  mystical  in  its  colourless 
silence.  Blue  Italy  was  shrouded  as  the  woman's  face 
was  shrouded.  The  speechlessness  of  Nature  environed 
her  speechlessness.  She  was  an  enigma  set  in  an  enigma, 
and  the  two  rowers  looked  at  her  and  at  the  sunless 
sky,  and  bent  to  their  oars  gravely.  A  melancholy  stole 
into  their  sensitive  dark  faces.  This  new  padrona  had 
already  cast  a  shadow  upon  their  buoyant  temperaments. 

She  noticed  it  and  clasped  her  hands  together  in 
her  lap.  She  was  not  accustomed  yet  to  her  new  role 
in  life. 

The  boat  stole  on.  Como  was  left  behind.  The  thickly- 
wooded  shores  of  the  lake,  dotted  with  many  villas,  the 
tall  green  mountains  covered  with  chestnut  trees,  framed 
the  long,  winding  riband  of  water  which  was  the  way 
to  Casa  Felice.  There  were  not  many  other  boats  out. 
The  steamer  had  already  started  for  Bellagio,  and  was 
far  away  near  the  point  where  Torno  nestles  around  its 
sheltered  harbour.  The  black  gondola  was  quickly  left 
behind.  Its  load  of  luggage  weighed  it  down.  The 
brown  boat  was  alone  in  the  grey  dream  of  the  sunless 
autumn  day. 

Behind  her  veil  Lady  Holme  was  watching  the  two 
Italian  boys,  whose  lithe  bodies  bent  to  their  oars,  whose 
dark  eyes  were  often  turned  upon  her  with  a  staring 
scrutiny,  with  the  morose  and  almost  violent  expression 
that  is  the  child  of  frustrated  curiosity. 

Was  it  true?  Was  she  in  real  life,  or  sitting  there, 
watching,  thinking,  striving  to  endure,  in  a  dream?  Since 
the  accident  which  had  forever  changed  her  life  she  had 
felt  many  sensations,  a  torrent  of  sensations,  but  never 

254 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

one  exactly  like  this,  never  one  so  full  of  emptiness, 
chaos,  grey  vacancy,  eternal  stillness,  unreal  oppression 
and  almost  magical  solitude  as  this.  She  had  thought 
she  had  suffered  all  things  that  she  could  suffer.  She 
had  not  yet  suffered  this.  Someone,  the  Governing 
Power,  had  held  this  in  reserve.  Now  it  was  being  sent 
forth  by  decree.  Now  it  was  coming  upon  her.  Now 
it  was  enveloping  her.  Now  it  was  rolling  round  her  and 
billowing  away  on  every  side  to  unimaginably  remote 
horizons. 

Another  and  a  new  emotion  of  horror  was  to  be  hers. 
Would  the  attack  of  the  hidden  one  upon  her  never  end  ? 
Was  that  quiver  of  poisoned  arrows  inexhaustible? 

She  leaned  back  against  the  cushions  without  feeling 
them.  She  wanted  to  sink  back  as  the  mortally  wounded 
sink,  to  sink  down,  far  down,  into  the  gulf  where  surely 
the  dying  go  to  find,  with  their  freezing  lips,  the  frozen 
lips  of  Death.    She  shut  her  eyes. 

Presently,  with  the  faint  splash  of  the  oars  in  the  water, 
there  mingled  a  low  sound  of  music.  The  rower  nearest 
to  her  was  singing  in  an  under  voice  to  keep  his  boy's 
heart  from  succumbing  to  the  spell  of  melancholy.  She 
listened,  still  wrapped  in  this  dreadful  chaos  that  was 
dreamlike.  At  first  the  music  was  a  murmur.  But  pres- 
ently it  grew  louder.  She  could  distinguish  words  now 
and  then.  Once  she  heard  carissima,  a  moment  after- 
wards amore.  Then  the  poison  in  which  the  tip  of  this 
last  arrow  had  been  curiously  steeped  began  its  work 
in  her.  The  quivering  creature  hidden  within  her  cow- 
ered, shrank,  put  up  trembling  hands,  cried  out,  "I  can- 
not endure  this  thing.  I  do  not  know  how  to.  I  have 
never  learnt  the  way.  This  is  impossible  for  me.  This 
is  a  demand  I  have  not  the  capacity  to  fulfil!"  And, 
even  while  it  cowered  and  cried  out,  knew,  "This  I  must 
endure.    This  demand  I  shall  be  made  to  fulfil.    Nothing 

255 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

will  serve  me;  no  outstretched  hands,  no  wailings  of 
despair,  no  prayers,  no  curses  even  will  save  me.  For 
I  am  the  soul  in  the  hands  of  the  vivisector." 

Along  the  lake,  past  the  old  home  of  La  Taglioni, 
past  the  Villa  Pasta  with  its  long  garden,  past  little  Torno 
with  its  great  round  oleanders  and  its  houses  crowding 
to  the  shore,  the  boatman  sang.  Gathering  courage  as  his 
own  voice  dispersed  his  melancholy,  and  the  warm  hopes 
of  his  youth  spread  their  wings  once  more,  roused  by  the 
words  of  love  his  lips  were  uttering,  he  fearlessly  sent 
out  his  song.  Love  in  the  South  was  in  it,  love  in  the 
sun,  embraces  in  warm,  scented  nights,  longings  in 
moonlight,  attainment  in  darkness.  The  boy  had  for- 
gotten the  veiled  lady,  whose  shrouded  face  and  whose 
silence  had  for  a  moment  saddened  him.  His  hot,  bold 
nature  reasserted  itself,  the  fire  of  his  youth  blazed  up 
again.  He  sang  as  if  only  the  other  boatman  had  been 
there  and  they  had  seen  the  girls  they  loved  among  the 
trees  upon  the  shore. 

And  the  soul  writhed,  like  an  animal  stretched  and 
strapped  upon  the  board,  to  whom  no  anaesthetic  had 
been  given. 

Never  before  would  it  have  been  possible  to  Lady 
Holme  to  believe  that  the  mere  sound  of  a  word  could 
inflict  such  torment  upon  a  heart  as  the  sound  of  the 
word  amove,  coming  from  the  boatman's  lips,  now  in- 
flicted upon  hers.  Each  time  it  came,  with  its  soft  beauty, 
its  languor  of  sweetness — like  a  word  reclining — it 
flayed  her  soul  alive,  and  showed  her  red,  raw  bareness. 

Yet  she  did  not  ask  the  man  to  stop  singing.  Few 
people  in  the  hands  of  Fate  ask  Fate  for  favours.  In- 
stinct speaks  in  the  soul  and  says,  "Be  silent." 

The  boat  rounded  the  point  of  Torno  and  came  at 
once  into  a  lonelier  region  of  the  lake.  Autumn  was 
more  definite   here.     Its   sadness   spoke   more  plainly. 

256 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Habitations  on  the  shores  were  fewer.  The  mountains 
were  more  grim,  though  grander.  And  their  greyness 
surely  closed  in  a  little  upon  the  boat,  the  rowers,  the 
veiled  woman  who  was  being  taken  to  Casa  Felice. 

Perhaps  to  combat  the  gathering  gloom  of  Nature 
the  boatman  sang  more  loudly,  with  the  full  force  of  his 
voice.  But  suddenly  he  seemed  to  be  struck  by  the 
singular  contrast  opposed  to  his  expansive  energy  by 
the  silent  figure  opposite  to  him.  A  conscious  look  came 
into  his  face.  His  voice  died  away  abruptly.  After  a 
pause  he  said, — 

"Perhaps  the  signora  is  not  fond  of  music?" 

Lady  Holme  wanted  to  speak,  but  she  could  not.  She 
and  this  bright-eyed  boy  were  not  in  the  same  world. 
That  was  what  she  felt.  He  did  not  know  it,  but  she 
knew  it.  And  one  world  cannot  speak  through  infinite 
space  with  another. 

She  said  nothing.  The  boy  looked  over  his  shoulder 
at  his  companion.  Then,  in  silence,  they  both  rowed 
on. 

And  now  that  the  song  had  ceased  she  was  again  in 
the  grey  chaos  of  the  dream,  in  the  irrevocable  emptiness, 
the  intense,  the  enormous  solitude  that  was  like  the  soli- 
tude of  an  unpeopled  eternity  in  which  man  had  no  lot. 

Presently,  with  a  stroke  of  his  right  oar,  the  boy  who 
had  sung  turned  the  boat's  prow  towards  the  shore,  and 
Lady  Holme  saw  a  large,  lonely  house  confronting  them 
on  the  nearer  bank  of  the  lake.  It  stood  apart.  For  a 
long  distance  on  either  side  of  it  there  was  no  other 
habitation.  The  flat,  yellow  fagade  rose  out  of  the  water. 
Behind  was  a  dim  tangle  of  densely-growing  trees  rising 
up  on  the  steep  mountain  side  towards  the  grey  sky. 
Lady  Holme  could  not  yet  see  details.  The  boat  was 
still  too  far  out  upon  the  lake.  Nor  v/ould  she  have  been 
able  to  note  details  if  she  had  seen  them.     Only  a  sort 

257 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE    FAN 

of  heavy  impression  that  this  house  had  a  pale,  haunted 
aspect  forced  itself  dully  upon  her. 

"Ecco  Casa  Felice,  signora!"  said  the  foremost  rower, 
half  timidly,  pointing  with  his  brown  hand. 

She  made  an  intense  effort  and  uttered  some  reply. 
The  boy  was  encouraged  and  began  to  tell  her  about  the 
beauties  of  the  house,  the  gardens,  the  chasm  behind 
the  piazza  down  which  the  waterfall  rushed,  to  dive  be- 
neath the  house  and  lose  itself  in  the  lake.  She  tried 
to  listen,  but  she  could  not.  The  strangeness  of  her 
being  alone,  hidden  behind  a  dense  veil,  of  her  coming 
to  such  a  retired  house  in  the  autumn  to  remain  there  in 
utter  solitude,  with  no  object  except  that  of  being  safe 
from  the  intrusion  of  anyone  who  knew  her,  of  being 
hidden  from  all  watching  eyes  that  had  ever  looked  upon 
her — the  strangeness  of  it  obsessed  her,  was  both  power- 
ful and  unreal.  That  she  should  be  one  of  those  lonely 
women  of  whom  the  world  speaks  with  a  lightly-con- 
temptuous pity  seemed  incredible  to  her.  Yet  what 
woman  was  lonelier  than  she? 

The  boat  drew  in  towards  the  shore  and  she  began 
to  see  the  house  more  plainly.  It  was  large,  and  the 
flat  facade  was  broken  in  the  middle  by  an  open  piazza 
with  round  arches  and  slender  columns.  This  piazza 
divided  the  house  in  two.  The  villa  was  in  fact  com- 
posed of  two  square  buildings  connected  together  by  it. 
From  the  boat,  looking  up,  Lady  Holme  saw  a  fierce 
mountain  gorge  rising  abruptly  behind  the  house.  Huge 
cypresses  grew  on  its  sides  towering  above  the  slate 
roof,  and  she  heard  the  loud  noise  of  falling  water.  It 
seemed  to  add  to  the  weight  of  her  desolation. 

The  boat  stopped  at  a  flight  of  worn  stone  steps.  One 
of  the  boys  sprang  out  and  rang  a  bell,  and  presently 
an  Italian  man-servant  opened  a  tall  iron  gate  set  in  a 
crumbling  stone  arch,  and  showed  more  stone  steps  lead- 

258 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

ing  upward  between  walls  covered  with  dripping  lichen. 
The  boat  boy  came  to  help  Lady  Holme  out. 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  move.  The  dreamlike 
feeling  had  come  upon  her  with  such  force  that  her  limbs 
refused  to  obey  her  will.  The  sound  of  the  falling  water 
in  the  mountain  gorge  had  sent  her  farther  adrift  into 
the  grey,  unpeopled  eternity,  into  the  vague  chaos.  But 
the  boy  held  out  his  hand,  took  hers.  The  strong  clasp 
recalled  her.  She  got  up.  The  Italian  man-servant  pre- 
ceded her  up  the  steps  into  a  long  garden  built  up  high 
above  the  lake  on  a  creeper-covered  wall.  To  the  left 
was  the  house  door.  She  stood  still  for  an  instant  look- 
ing out  over  the  wide  expanse  of  unrufifled  grey  water. 
Then,  putting  her  hand  up  to  her  veil  as  if  to  keep  it 
more  closely  over  her  face,  she  slowly  went  into  the 
house. 


259 


XVIII 

DESPAIR  had  driven  Lady  Holme  to  Casa 
Felice.  When  she  had  found  that  the  accident 
had  disfigured  her  frightfully,  and  that  the  dis- 
figurement would  be  permanent,  she  had  at  first  thought 
of  killing  herself.  But  then  she  had  been  afraid.  Life 
had  abruptly  become  a  horror  to  her.  She  felt  that  it 
must  be  a  horror  to  her  always.  Yet  she  dared  not  leave 
it  then,  in  her  home  in  London,  in  the  midst  of  the  sights 
and  sounds  connected  with  her  former  happiness.  After 
the  operation,  and  the  verdict  of  the  doctors,  that  no 
more  could  be  done  than  had  been  done,  she  had  had 
an  access  of  almost  crazy  misery,  in  which  all  the  secret 
violence  of  her  nature  had  rushed  to  the  surface  from 
the  depths.  Shut  up  alone  in  her  room,  she  had  passed  a 
day  and  a  night  without  food.  She  had  lain  upon  the 
floor.  She  had  torn  her  clothes  into  fragments.  The 
animal  that  surely  dwells  at  the  door  of  the  soul  of  each 
human  being  had  had  its  way  in  her,  had  ravaged  her, 
humiliated  her,  turned  her  to  savagery.  Then  at  last 
she  had  slept,  still  lying  upon  the  floor.  And  she  had 
waked  feeling  worn  out  but  calm,  desperately  calm.  She 
defied  the  doctors.  What  did  they  know  of  women,  of 
what  women  can  do  to  regain  a  vanished  beauty?  She 
would  call  in  specialists,  beauty  doctors,  quacks,  the 
people  who  fill  the  papers  with  their  advertisements. 

Then  began  a  strange  defile  of  rag-tag  humanity  to 
the  Cadogan  Square  door — women,  men,  of  all  nation- 

260 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

alities  and  pretensions.  But  the  evil  was  beyond  their 
power.  At  last  an  American  specialist,  who  had  won 
renown  by  turning  a  famous  woman  of  sixty  into  the 
semblance  of  a  woman  of  six-and-thirty — for  a  short 
time — was  called  in.  Lady  Holme  knew  that  his  verdict 
must  be  final.  If  he  could  do  nothing  to  restore  her 
vanished  loveliness  nothing  could  be  done.  After  being 
closeted  with  her  for  a  long  time  he  came  out  of  her 
room.  There  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  To  the  footman 
who  opened  the  hall  door,  and  who  stared  in  surprise, 
he  explained  his  emotion  thus. 

"Poor  lady,"  he  said.    "It's  a  hopeless  case." 

"Ah!"  said  the  man,  who  was  the  pale  footman  Lady 
Holme  had  sent  with  the  latch-key  to  Leo  Ulford. 

"Hopeless.  It's  a  hard  thing  to  have  to  tell  a  lady 
she'll  always  be — be — " 

"What,  sir?"  said  the  footman. 

"Well — what  people  won't  enjoy  looking  at." 

He  winked  his  eyes.  He  was  a  little  bald  man,  with 
a  hatchet  face  that  did  not  suggest  emotion. 

"And  judging  by  part  of  the  left  side  of  the  face,  I 
guess  she  must  have  been  almost  a  beauty  once,"  he 
added,  stepping  into  the  square. 

That  was  Lady  Holme  now.  She  had  to  realise  her- 
self as  a  woman  whom  people  would  rather  not  look  at. 

All  this  time  she  had  not  seen  Fritz.  He  had  asked 
to  see  her.  He  had  even  tried  to  insist  on  seeing  her, 
but  so  long  as  there  was  any  hope  in  her  of  recovering 
her  lost  beauty  she  had  refused  to  let  him  come  near  her. 
The  thought  of  his  eyes  staring  upon  the  tragic  change 
in  her  face  sent  cold  creeping  through  her  veins.  But 
when  the  American  had  gone  she  realised  that  there  was 
nothing  to  wait  for,  that  if  she  were  ever  to  let  Fritz 
see  her  again  it  had  better  be  now.  The  bandages  in 
which  her  face  had  been  swathed  had  been  removed.    She 

261 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

went  to  a  mirror,  and,  setting  her  teeth  and  clenching 
her  hands,  looked  into  it  steadily. 

She  did  not  recognise  herself.  As  she  stood  there 
she  felt  as  if  a  dreadful  stranger  had  come  into  the  room 
and  was  confronting  her. 

The  accident,  and  the  surgical  treatment  that  had  fol- 
lowed upon  it,  had  greatly  altered  the  face.  The  nose, 
once  fine  and  delicate,  was  now  coarse  and  misshapen. 
A  wound  had  permanently  distorted  the  mouth,  pro- 
ducing a  strange,  sneering  expression.  The  whole  of 
the  right  side  of  the  face  was  puffy  and  heavy-looking, 
and  drawn  down  towards  the  chin.  It  was  also  at 
present  discoloured.  For  as  Lady  Holme  lay  under  the 
car  she  had  been  badly  burnt.  The  raw,  red  tinge  would 
no  doubt  fade  away  with  time,  but  the  face  must  always 
remain  unsightly,  even  a  little  grotesque,  must  always 
show  to  the  casual  passer-by  a  woman  who  had  been 
the  victim  of  a  dreadful  accident. 

Lady  Holme  stared  at  this  woman  for  a  long  time. 
There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes.  Then  she  went  to  the 
dressing-table  and  began  to  make  up  her  face.  Slowly, 
deliberately,  with  a  despairing  carefulness,  she  covered 
it  with  pigments  till  she  looked  like  a  woman  in  Regent 
Street.  Her  face  became  a  frightful  mask,  and  even 
then  the  fact  that  she  was  disfigured  was  not  concealed. 
The  application  of  the  pigments  began  to  cause  her  pain. 
The  right  side  of  her  face  throbbed.  She  looked  dread- 
fully old,  too,  with  this  mass  of  paint  and  powder  upon 
her — like  a  hag,  she  thought.  And  it  was  obvious  that 
she  was  trying  to  hide  something.  Anyone,  man  or 
woman,  looking  upon  her,  would  divine  that  so  much  art 
could  only  be  used  for  the  concealment  of  a  dreadful 
disability.  People,  seeing  this  mask,  would  suppose — 
what  might  they  not  suppose?  The  pain  in  her  face 
became  horrible.     Suddenly,  with  a  cry,  she  began  to 

262 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

undo  what  she  had  done.  When  she  had  finished  she 
rang  the  bell.  Her  maid  knocked  at  the  door.  Without 
opening  it  she  called  out, — 

"Is  his  lordship  in  the  house?" 

"Yes,  my  lady.  His  lordship  has  just  come  in." 

"Go  and  ask  him  to  come  up  and  see  me." 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

Lady  Holme  sat  down  on  the  sofa  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  She  was  trembling  violently.  She  sat  looking  on 
the  ground  and  trying  to  control  her  limbs.  A  sort  of 
dreadful  humbleness  surged  through  her,  as  if  she  were  a 
guilty  creature  about  to  cringe  before  a  judge.  She 
trembled  till  the  sofa  on  which  she  was  sitting  shook. 
She  caught  hold  of  the  cushions  and  made  a  strong 
effort  to  sit  still.    The  handle  of  the  door  turned. 

"Don't  come  in!"  she  cried  out  sharply. 

But  the  door  opened  and  her  husband  appeared  on  the 
threshold.  As  he  did  so  she  turned  swiftly  so  that  only 
part  of  the  left  side  of  her  face  was  towards  him. 

"Vi!"  he  said.    "Poor  old  girl,  I—" 

He  was  coming  forward  when  she  called  out  again, — 

"Stay  there,  Fritz!" 

He  stopped. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"I — I — wait  a  minute.    Shut  the  door." 

He  shut  the  door.  She  was  still  looking  away  from 
him. 

"Do  you  understand?"  she  said,  still  in  a  sharp  voice. 

"Understand  what  ?" 

"That  I'm  altered,  that  the  accident's  altered  me — 
very  much?" 

"I  know.  The  doctor  said  something.  But  you  look 
all  right." 

"From  there." 

The  trembling  seized  her  again. 
263 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Well,  but— it  can't  be  so  bad—" 

"It  is.    Don't  move!    Fritz—" 

"Well?" 

"You — do  you  care  for  me?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  old  girl.    Why,  you  know — " 

Suddenly  she  turned  round,  stood  up  and  faced  him 
desperately. 

"Do  you  care  for  me,  Fritz?"  she  said. 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  It  seemed  to  last  for  a 
long  while.  At  length  it  was  broken  by  a  woman's  voice 
crying,— 

"Fritz — Fritz — it  isn't  my  fault!    It  isn't  my  fault!" 

"Good  God!"  Lord  Holme  said  slowly. 

"It  isn't  my  fault,  Fritz!    It  isn't  my  fault!" 

"Good  God!  but — the  doctor  didn't —  Oh — wait  a 
minute — " 

A  door  opened  and  shut.  He  was  gone.  Lady  Holme 
fell  down  on  the  sofa.  She  was  alone,  but  she  kept  on 
sobbing, — 

"It  isn't  my  fault,  Fritz!    It  isn't  my  fault,  Fritz!" 

And  while  she  sobbed  the  words  she  knew  that  her 
life  with  Fritz  Holme  had  come  to  an  end.  The  chapter 
was  closed. 

From  that  day  she  had  only  one  desire — to  hide  her- 
self. The  season  was  over.  London  was  empty.  She 
could  travel.  She  resolved  to  disappear.  Fritz  had 
stayed  on  in  the  house,  but  she  would  not  see  him  again, 
and  he  did  not  press  her  to.  She  knew  why.  He  dreaded 
to  look  at  her.  She  would  see  no  one.  At  first  there 
had  been  streams  of  callers,  but  now  almost  everybody 
had  left  town.  Only  Sir  Donald  came  to  the  door  each 
day  and  inquired  after  her  health.  One  afternoon  a  note 
was  brought  to  her.  It  was  from  Fritz,  saying  that  he 
had  been  "feeling  a  bit  chippy,"  and  the  doctor  advised 
him  to  run  over  to  Homburg.     But  he  wished  to  know 

264 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

what  she  meant  to  do.  Would  she  go  down  to  her 
father? — her  mother,  Lady  St  Loo,  was  dead,  and  her 
father  was  an  old  man — or  what?  Would  she  come  to 
Homburg  too? 

When  she  read  those  words  she  laughed  out  loud. 
Then  she  sent  for  the  New  York  Herald  and  looked  for 
the  Homburg  notes.  She  found  Miss  Pimpernel  Schley's 
name  among  the  list  of  the  newest  arrivals.  That  evening 
she  wrote  to  her  husband: — 

"Do  not  bother  about  me.  Go  to  Homburg.  I  need 
rest  and  I  want  to  be  alone.  Perhaps  I  may  go  to  some 
quiet  place  in  Switzerland  with  my  maid.  I'll  let  you 
know  if  I  leave  town.    Good-bye. 

"Viola  Holme." 

At  first  she  had  put  only  Viola.  Then  she  added  the 
second  word.  Viola  alone  suggested  an  intimacy  which 
no  longer  existed  between  her  and  the  man  she  had 
married. 

The  next  day  Lord  Holme  crossed  the  Channel.  She 
was  left  with  the  servants. 

Till  then  she  had  not  been  out  of  the  house,  but  two 
days  afterwards,  swathed  in  a  thick  veil,  she  went  for  a 
drive  in  the  Park,  and  on  returning  from  it  found  Sir 
Donald  on  the  door-step.  He  looked  frailer  than  ever 
and  very  old.  Lady  Holme  would  have  preferred  to 
avoid  him.  Since  that  interview  with  her  husband  the 
idea  of  meeting  anyone  she  knew  terrified  her.  But  he 
came  at  once  to  help  her  out  of  the  carriage.  Her  face 
was  invisible,  but  he  knew  her,  and  he  greeted  her  in  a 
rather  shaky  voice.  She  could  see  that  he  was  deeply 
moved,  and  thanked  him  for  his  many  inquiries. 

"But  why  are  you  still  in  London?"  she  said. 

"You  are  still  in  London,"  he  replied. 
265 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

She  was  about  to  say  good-bye  on  the  door-step,  but 
he  kept  her  hand  in  his  and  said, — 

"Let  me  come  in  and  speak  to  you  for  a  moment." 

"Very  well,"  she  said. 

When  they  were  in  the  drawing-room  she  still  kept 
the  veil  over  her  face,  and  remained  standing.  , 

"Sir  Donald,"  she  said,  "you  cared  for  me,  I  know; 
you  were  fond  of  me." 

"Were?"  he  answered. 

"Yes — were.  I  am  no  longer  the  woman  you — other 
people — cared  for." 

"If  there  is  any  change — "  he  began. 

"I  know.  You  are  going  to  say  it  is  not  in  the  woman, 
the  real  woman.  But  I  say  it  is.  The  change  is  in 
what,  to  men,  is  the  real  woman.  This  change  has  de- 
stroyed any  feeling  my  husband  may  have  had  for  me." 

"It  could  never  destroy  mine,"  Sir  Donald  said  quietly. 

"Yes,  it  could — yours  especially,  because  you  are  a 
worshipper  of  beauty,  and  Fritz  never  worshipped  any- 
thing except  himself.  I  am  going  to  let  you  say  good- 
bye to  me  without  seeing  me.    Remember  me  as  I  was." 

"But — what  do  you  mean  ?  You  speak  as  if  you  would 
no  longer  go  into  the  world." 

"I  go  into  the  world!  You  haven't  seen  me.  Sir 
Donald." 

She  saw  an  expression  of  nervous  apprehension  come 
into  his  face  as  he  glanced  at  her  veil. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  then?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know.     I — I  want  a  hiding-place." 

She  saw  tears  come  into  his  old,  faded  eyes. 

"Hush!"  he  said.     "Don't—" 

"A  hiding-place.  I  want  to  travel  a  long  way  oflf  and 
be  quite  alone,  and  think,  and  see  how  I  can  go  on,  if  I 
can  go  on." 

Her  voice  was  quite  steady. 
266 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

"If  I  could  do  something — anything  for  you!"  he 
murmured. 

"You  fancy  you  are  still  speaking  to  the  woman  who 
sang,  Sir  Donald." 

"Would  you — "  Suddenly  he  spoke  with  some  eager- 
ness.   "You  want  to  go  away,  to  be  alone?" 

"Yes,  I  must." 

"Let  me  lend  you  Casa  Felice." 

"Casa  Felice!" 

She  laughed. 

"To  be  sure;  I  was  to  baptise  it,  wasn't  I?" 

"Ah,  that — will  you  have  it  for  a  while?" 

"But  you  are  going  there!" 

"I  will  not  go.  It  is  all  ready.  The  servants  are 
engaged.  You  will  be  perfectly  looked  after,  perfectly 
comfortable.  Let  me  feel  I  can  do  something  for  you. 
Try  it.  You  will  find  beauty  there — peace.  And  I — 
I  shall  be  on  the  lake,  not  far  ofif." 

"I  must  be  alone,"  she  said  wearily. 

"You  shall  be.  I  will  never  come  unless  you  send 
for  me." 

"I  should  never  send  for  you  or  for  anyone." 

She  did  not  say  then  what  she  would  do,  but  three 
days  later  she  accepted  Sir  Donald's  offer. 

And  now  she  was  alone  in  Casa  Felice.  She  had 
not  even  brought  her  French  maid,  but  had  engaged  an 
Italian.  She  was  resolved  to  isolate  herself  with  people 
who  had  never  seen  her  as  a  beautiful  woman. 


267 


XIX 

LADY  HOLME  never  forgot  that  first  evening  at 
Casa  Felice.  The  strangeness  of  it  was  greater 
than  the  strangeness  of  any  nightmare.  When 
she  was  shut  up  in  her  bedroom  in  London  she  had 
thought  she  reahsed  all  the  meaning  of  the  word  loneli- 
ness. Now  she  knew  that  then  she  had  not  begun  to 
realise  it.  For  she  had  been  in  her  own  house,  in  the 
city  which  contained  a  troop  of  her  friends,  in  the  city 
where  she  had  reigned.  And  although  she  knew  that 
she  would  reign  no  more,  she  had  not  grasped  the  exact 
meaning  of  that  knowledge  in  London.  She  had  known 
a  fact  but  not  fully  felt  it.  She  had  known  what  she  now 
was  but  not  fully  felt  what  she  now  was.  Even  when 
Fritz,  muttering  almost  terrified  exclamations,  had 
stumbled  out  of  the  bedroom,  she  had  not  heard  the  dull 
clamour  of  finality  as  she  heard  it  now. 

She  was  an  exile.  She  was  an  outcast  among  women. 
She  was  no  longer  a  beautiful  woman,  she  was  not  even 
a  plain  woman — she  was  a  dreadful-looking  human 
being. 

The  Italian  servants  by  whom  she  was  surrounded 
suddenly  educated  her  in  the  lore  of  exact  knowledge 
of  herself  and  her  present  situation. 

Italians  are  the  most  charming  of  the  nations,  but 
Italians  of  the  lower  classes  are  often  very  unreserved 
in  the  display  of  their  most  fugitive  sensations,  their 
most  passing  moods.  The  men,  especially  when  they 
are  young,  are  highly  susceptible  to  beauty  in  women. 

268 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

They  are  also — and  the  second  emotion  springs  natu- 
rally enough  from  the  first — almost  childishly  averse  from 
female  ugliness.  It  is  a  common  thing  in  Italy  to  hear 
men  of  the  lower  classes  speak  of  a  woman's  plainness 
with  brutality,  with  a  manner  almost  of  personal  offence. 
They  often  shrink  from  personal  ugliness  as  Englishmen 
seldom  do,  like  children  shrinking  from  something  ab- 
normal— a  frightening  dwarf,  a  spectre. 

Now  that  Lady  Holme  had  reached  the  "hiding-place" 
for  which  she  had  longed,  she  resolved  to  be  brutal  with 
herself.  Till  now  she  had  almost  perpetually  concealed 
her  disfigured  face.  Even  her  servants  had  not  seen  it. 
But  in  this  lonely  house,  among  these  strangers,  she  knew 
that  the  inevitable  moment  was  come  when  she  must 
begin  the  new  life,  the  terrible  life  that  was  henceforth 
to  be  hers.  In  her  bedroom  she  took  off  her  hat  and 
veil,  and  without  glancing  into  the  glass  she  came  down- 
stairs. In  the  hall  she  met  the  butler.  She  saw  him 
start. 

"Can  I  have  tea?"  she  said,  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"Yes,  signora,"  he  answered,  looking  down. 

"In  the  piazza,  please." 

She  went  out  through  the  open  door  into  the  piazza. 
The  boy  who  had  sung  in  the  boat  was  there,  watering 
some  geraniums  in  pots.  As  she  came  out  he  glanced 
up  curiously,  at  the  same  time  pulling  off  his  hat.  When 
he  saw  her  his  mouth  gaped,  and  an  expression  of  piti- 
less repulsion  came  into  his  eyes.  It  died  out  almost 
instantaneously,  and  he  smiled  and  began  to  speak  about 
the  flowers.  But  Lady  Holme  had  received  her  educa- 
tion. She  knew  what  she  was  to  youth  that  instinctively 
loves  beauty. 

She  sat  down  in  a  cane  chair.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
people  were  scourging  her  with  thongs  of  steel,  as  if  she 
were  bleeding  from  the  strokes. 

269 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

She  looked  out  across  the  lake. 

The  butler  brought  tea  and  put  it  beside  her.  She 
did  not  hear  him  come  or  go.  Behind  her  the  waterfall 
roared  down  between  the  cypresses.  Before  her  the  lake 
spread  out  its  grey,  unruffled  surface.  And  this  was  the 
baptism  of  Casa  Felice,  her  baptism  into  a  new  life.  Her 
agony  was  the  more  intense  because  she  had  never  been 
an  intellectual  woman,  had  never  lived  the  inner  life. 
Always  she  had  depended  on  outward  things.  Always 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  bustle,  movement,  excite- 
ment, perpetual  intercourse  with  people  who  paid  her 
homage.  Always  she  had  lived  for  the  world,  and  wor- 
shipped, because  she  had  seen  those  around  her  wor- 
shipping, the  body. 

And  now  all  was  taken  from  her.  Without  warning, 
without  a  moment  for  preparation,  she  was  cast  down 
into  Hell.    Even  her  youth  was  made  useless  to  her. 

When  she  thought  of  that  she  began  to  cry,  sitting 
there  by  the  stone  balustrade  of  the  piazza,  to  cry  con- 
vulsively. She  remembered  her  pity  for  old  age,  for  the 
monstrous  loss  it  cannot  cease  from  advertising.  And 
now  she,  in  her  youth,  had  passed  it  on  the  road  to  the 
pit.  Lady  Cardington  was  a  beautiful  woman.  She 
pitied  herself  bitterly  because  she  was  morbid,  as  many 
beautiful  women  are  when  they  approach  old  age.  But 
she  was  beautiful.  She  would  always  be  beautiful.  She 
might  not  think  it,  but  she  was  still  a  power,  could  still 
inspire  love.  In  her  blanched  face  framed  in  white  hair 
there  was  in  truth  a  wonderful  attraction. 

Whiteness — Lady  Holme  shuddered  when  she  thought 
of  whiteness,  remembering  what  the  glass  had  shown  her. 

Fritz — his  animal  passion  for  her — his  horror  of  her 
now — Miss  Schley — their  petty,  concealed  strife — Rupert 
Carey's  love — Leo  Ulford's  desire  of  conquest — his 
father's  strange,  pathetic  devotion — Winter  falling  at  the 

270 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

feet  of  Spring — figures  and  events  from  the  panorama 
of  her  hfe  now  ended  flickered  through  her  almost 
numbed  mind,  while  the  tears  still  ran  down  her  face. 

And  Robin  Pierce? 

As  she  thought  of  him  more  hfe  quickened  in  her 
mind. 

Since  her  accident  he  had  written  to  her  several  times, 
ardent,  tender  letters,  recalling  all  he  had  said  to  her, 
recounting  again  his  adoration  of  her  for  her  nature,  her 
soul,  the  essence  of  her,  the  woman  in  her,  telling  her 
that  this  terror  which  had  come  upon  her  only  made  her 
dearer  to  him,  that — as  she  knew — he  had  impiously 
dared  almost  to  long  for  it,  as  for  an  order  of  release 
that  would  take  effect  in  the  liberation  of  her  true  self. 

These  letters  she  had  read,  but  they  had  not  stirred 
her.  She  had  told  herself  that  Robin  did  not  know, 
that  he  was  a  self-deceiver,  that  he  did  not  understand 
his  own  nature,  which  was  allied  to  the  nature  of  every 
living  man.  But  now,  seeking  some,  even  the  smallest, 
solace  in  the  intense  agony  of  desolation  that  was  upon 
her,  she  caught — in  her  bleeding  woman's  heart — at  this 
hand  stretched  out  from  Rome.  She  got  up,  went  to 
her  bedroom,  unlocked  her  despatch-box,  took  out  these 
letters  of  Robin's.  They  had  not  stirred  her,  yet  she 
had  kept  them.  Now  she  came  down  once  more  to  the 
piazza,  sat  by  the  tea-table,  opened  them,  read  them, 
re-read  them,  whispered  them  over  again  and  again. 
Something  she  must  have;  some  hand  she  must  catch  at. 
She  could  not  die  in  this  freezing  cold  which  she  had 
never  known,  this  cold  that  came  out  of  the  Inferno, 
at  whose  cavern  mouth  she  stood.  And  Robin  said  he 
was  there — Robin  said  he  was  there. 

She  did  not  love  Robin.  It  seemed  to  her  now  that 
it  would  be  grotesque  for  her  to  love  any  man.  Her 
face  was  not  meant  for  love.     But  as  she  read  these 

271 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

ardent,  romantic  letters,  written  since  the  tragedy  that 
had  overtaken  her,  she  began  to  ask  herself,  with  a  fierce 
anxiety,  whether  what  Robin  affirmed  could  be  the  truth? 
Was  he  unlike  other  men?  Was  his  nature  capable  of  a 
devotion  of  the  soul  to  another  soul,  of  a  devotion  to 
which  any  physical  ugliness,  even  any  physical  horror, 
would  count  as  nothing? 

After  that  last  scene  with  Fritz  she  felt  as  if  he  were 
no  longer  her  husband,  as  if  he  were  only  a  man  who 
had  fled  from  her  in  fear.  She  did  not  think  any  more 
of  his  rights,  her  duties.  He  had  abandoned  his  rights. 
What  duties  could  she  have  towards  a  man  who  was 
frightened  when  he  looked  at  her?  And  indeed  all  the 
social  and  moral  questions  to  which  the  average  woman 
of  the  world  pays — because  she  must  pay — attention  had 
suddenly  ceased  to  exist  for  Lady  Holme.  She  was  no 
longer  a  woman  of  the  world.  All  worldly  matters  had 
sunk  down  beneath  her  feet  with  her  lost  beauty.  She 
had  wanted  to  be  free.  Well,  now  she  was  surely  free. 
Who  would  care  what  she  did  in  the  future? 

Robin  said  he  was  there. 

She  thought  that,  unless  she  could  feel  that  in  the 
world  there  was  one  man  who  wanted  to  take  care  of 
her,  she  must  destroy  herself.  The  thought  grew  in 
her  as  she  sat  there,  till  she  said  to  herself,  "If  it  is 
true  what  he  says,  perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  live.  If  it 
is  not  true — "  She  looked  over  the  stone  balustrade  at 
the  grey  waters  of  the  lake.  Twilight  was  darkening 
over  them. 

Late  that  evening,  when  she  was  sitting  in  the  big 
drawing-room  staring  at  the  floor,  the  butler  came  in 
with  a  telegram.    She  opened  it  and  read: — 

"Sir  Donald  has  told  me  you  are  at  Casa  Felice 
arrive  to-morrow  from  Rome — Robin." 

2^2 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

"No  answer,"  she  said. 

So  he  was  coming — to-morrow.  The  awful  sense  of 
desolation  lifted  slightly  from  her.  A  human  being  was 
travelHng  to  her,  was  wanting  to  see  her.  To  see  her! 
She  shuddered.  Then  fiercely  she  asked  herself  why  she 
was  afraid.  She  would  not  be  afraid.  She  would  trust 
in  Robin.  He  was  unlike  other  men.  There  had  always 
been  in  him  something  that  set  him  apart,  a  strangeness, 
a  romance,  a  love  of  hidden  things,  a  subtlety.  If  only 
he  would  still  care  for  her,  still  feel  towards  her  as  he 
had  felt,  she  could  face  the  future,  she  thought.  They 
might  be  apart.  That  did  not  matter.  She  had  no 
thought  of  a  close  connection,  of  frequent  intercourse 
even.  She  only  wanted  desperately,  frantically,  to  know 
that  someone  who  had  loved  her  could  love  her  still  in 
spite  of  what  had  happened.  If  she  could  retain  one 
deep  affection  she  felt  that  she  could  live. 

The  morrow  would  convince  her. 

That  night  she  did  not  sleep.  She  lay  in  bed  and 
heard  the  water  falling  in  the  gorge,  and  when  the  dawn 
began  to  break  she  did  a  thing  she  had  not  done  for  a 
long  time. 

She  got  out  of  bed,  knelt  down  and  prayed — prayed 
to  Him  who  had  dealt  terribly  with  her  that  He  would 
be  merciful  when  Robin  came. 

When  it  was  daylight  and  the  Italian  maid  knocked 
at  her  door  she  told  her  to  get  out  a  plain,  dark  dress. 
She  did  her  hair  herself  with  the  utmost  simplicity.  That 
at  least  was  still  beautiful.  Then  she  went  down  and 
walked  in  the  high  garden  above  the  lake.  The  greyness 
had  lifted  and  the  sky  was  blue.  The  mellowness  rather 
than  the  sadness  of  autumn  was  apparent,  throned  on 
the  tall  mountains  whose  woods  were  bathed  in  sun- 
shine. All  along  the  great  old  wall,  that  soared  forty 
feet  from  the  water,  roses  were  climbing.     Scarlet  and 

273 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

white  geraniums  bloomed  in  discoloured  ancient  vases. 
Clumps  of  oleanders  showed  pink  showers  of  blossoms. 
Tall  bamboos  reared  their  thin  heads  towards  the  tufted 
summits  of  palms  that  suggested  Africa.  Monstrous 
cypresses  aspired,  with  a  sort  of  haughty  resignation, 
above  their  brother  trees.  The  bees  went  to  and  fro. 
Flies  circled  and  settled.  Lizards  glided  across  the  warm 
stones  and  rustled  into  hiding  among  the  ruddy  fallen 
leaves.  And  always  the  white  water  sang  in  the  gorge 
as  it  rushed  towards  the  piazza  of  Casa  Felice. 

And  Lady  Holme  tried  to  hope. 

Yet,  as  she  walked  slowly  to  and  fro  amid  the  almost 
rank  luxuriance  of  the  garden,  she  was  gnawed  by  a 
terrible  anxiety.  The  dreadful  humbleness,  the  shrinking 
cowardice  of  the  unsightly  human  being  invaded  her. 
She  strove  to  put  them  from  her.  She  strove  to  call 
Robin's  own  arguments  and  assertions  to  her  aid.  What 
she  had  been  she  still  was  in  all  essentials.  Herself  was 
unharmed,  existed,  could  love,  hate,  be  tender,  be  pas- 
sionate as  before.  Viola  was  there  still  within  her,  the 
living  spirit  to  which  a  name  had  been  given  when  she 
was  a  little  child.  The  talent  was  there  which  had 
spoken,  which  could  still  speak,  through  her  voice.  The 
beating  heart  was  there  which  could  still  speak  through 
her  actions.  The  mysteries  of  the  soul  still  pursued 
their  secret  courses  within  her,  like  far-off  subterranean 
streams.  The  essential  part  of  her  remained  as  it  had 
been.  Only  a  little  outside  bit  of  a  framework  had  been 
twisted  awry.  Could  that  matter  very  much?  Had  she 
not  perhaps  been  morbid  in  her  despair? 

She  determined  to  take  courage.  She  told  herself  that 
if  she  allowed  this  dreadful,  invading  humbleness  way 
in  her  she  would  lose  all  power  to  dominate  another  by 
showing  that  she  had  ceased  to  dominate  herself.  If  she 
met  Robin  in  fear  and  trembling  she  would  actually 

274 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE   FAN 

teach  him  to  despise  her.  If  she  showed  that  she  thought 
herself  changed,  horrible,  he  would  inevitably  catch  her 
thought  and  turn  it  to  her  own  destruction.  Men  de- 
spise those  who  despise  themselves.  She  knew  that, 
and  she  argued  with  herself,  fought  with  herself.  If 
Robin  loved  the  angel,  surely  he  could  still  love.  For  if 
there  were  an  angel  within  her  it  had  not  been  harmed. 
And  she  leaned  on  the  stone  wall  and  prayed  again 
while  the  roses  touched  her  altered  face. 

It  seemed  to  her  then  that  courage  was  sent  to  her. 
She  felt  less  terrified  of  what  was  before  her,  as  if  some- 
thing had  risen  up  within  her  upon  which  she  could 
lean,  as  if  her  soul  began  to  support  the  trembling,  craven 
thing  that  would  betray  her,  began  to  teach  it  how  to 
be  still. 

She  did  not  feel  happy,  but  she  felt  less  desperately 
miserable  than  she  had  felt  since  the  accident. 

After  dejeuner  she  walked  again  in  the  garden.  As 
the  time  drew  near  for  Robin  to  arrive  the  dreadful 
feverish  anxiety  of  the  early  morning  awoke  again  within 
her.  She  had  not  conquered  herself.  Again  the  thought 
of  suicide  came  upon  her,  and  she  felt  that  her  life  or 
death  were  in  the  hands  of  this  man  whom  yet  she  did 
not  love.  They  were  in  his  hands  because  he  was  a 
human  being  and  she  was  one.  There  are  straits  in 
which  the  child  of  life,  whom  the  invisible  hand  that  is 
extended  in  a  religion  has  not  yet  found,  must  find  in 
the  darkness  a  human  hand  stretched  out  to  it  or  sink 
down  in  utter  terror  and  perhaps  perish.  Lady  Holme 
was  in  such  a  strait.  She  knew  it.  She  said  to  herself 
quite  plainly  that  if  Robin  failed  to  stretch  out  his 
hand  to  her  she  could  not  go  on  living.  It  was  clear  to 
her  that  her  life  or  death  depended  upon  whether  he 
remained  true  to  what  he  had  said  was  his  ideal,  or 
whether  he  proved  false  to  it  and  showed  himself  such  a 
man  as  Fritz,  as  a  thousand  others. 

275 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

She  sickened  with  anxiety  as  the  moments  passed. 

Now,  leaning  upon  the  wall,  she  began  to  scan  the 
lake.  Presently  she  saw  the  steamer  approaching  the 
landing-stage  of  Carate  on  the  opposite  bank.  The 
train  from  Rome  had  arrived.  But  Robin  would  doubt- 
less come  by  boat.  There  was  at  least  another  hour  to 
wait.  She  left  the  wall  and  walked  quickly  up  and  down, 
moving  her  hands  and  her  lips.  Now  she  almost  wished 
he  were  not  coming.  She  recalled  the  whole  story  of 
her  acquaintance  with  Robin — his  adoration  of  her  when 
she  was  a  girl,  his  wish  to  marry  her,  his  melancholy 
when  she  refused  him,  his  persistent  affection  for  her 
after  she  had  married  Fritz,  his  persistent  belief  that  there 
was  that  within  her  which  Fritz  did  not  understand  and 
could  never  satisfy,  his  persistent  obstinacy  in  asserting 
that  he  had  the  capacity  to  understand  and  content  this 
hidden  want.    Was  that  true? 

Fritz  had  cared  for  nothing  but  the  body,  yet  she  had 
loved  Fritz.  She  did  not  love  Robin.  Yet  there  was  a 
feeling  in  her  that  if  he  proved  true  to  his  ideal  now  she 
might  love  him  in  the  end.  If  only  he  would  love  her — 
after  he  knew. 

She  heard  a  sound  of  oars.  The  blood  rushed  to  her 
face.  She  drew  back  from  the  wall  and  hurried  into  the 
house.  All  the  morning  she  had  been  making  up  her 
mind  to  go  to  meet  Robin  at  once  in  the  sunlight,  to 
let  him  know  all  at  once.  But  now,  in  terror,  she  went 
to  her  room.  With  trembling  hands  she  pinned  on  a 
hat;  she  took  out  of  a  drawer  the  thick  veil  she  wore 
when  travelling  and  tied  it  tightly  over  her  face.  Panic 
seized  her. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  the  announcement 
that  a  signore  was  waiting  in  the  drawing-room  for  the 
signora. 

Lady  Holme  felt  an  almost  ungovernable  sensation 
276 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

of  physical  nausea.  She  went  to  her  dressing-case  and 
drank  one  or  two  burning  drops  of  eau  de  Cologne. 
Then  she  pulled  down  the  veil  under  her  chin  and  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  for  several  minutes  without 
moving.  Then  she  went  downstairs  quickly  and  went 
quickly  into  the  drawing-room. 

Robin  was  there,  standing  by  the  window.  He  looked 
excited,  with  an  excitement  of  happiness,  and  this  gave 
to  him  an  aspect  of  almost  boyish  youth.  His  long,  black 
eyes  shone  with  eagerness  when  she  came  into  the  room. 
But  when  he  saw  the  veil  his  face  changed. 

"You  don't  trust  me!"  he  said,  without  any  greeting. 

She  went  up  to  him  and  put  out  her  hand. 

"Robin!"  she  said. 

"You  don't  trust  me,"  he  repeated. 

He  took  her  hand.    His  was  hot. 

"Robin — I'm  a  coward,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  quivered. 

"Oh,  my  dearest!"  he  exclaimed,  melted  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

He  took  her  other  hand,  and  she  felt  his  hands  throb- 
bing. His  clasp  was  so  ardent  that  it  startled  her  into 
forgetting  everything  for  one  instant,  everything  except 
that  these  clasping  hands  loved  her  hands,  loved  her. 
That  instant  was  exquisitely  sweet  to  her.  There  was  a 
stinging  sweetness  in  it,  a  mystery  of  sweetness,  as  if  their 
four  hands  were  four  souls  longing  to  be  lost  in  one 
another. 

"Now  you'll  trust  me,"  he  said. 

She  released  her  hands  and  immediately  her  terror 
of  doubt  returned. 

"Let  us  go  into  the  garden,"  she  answered. 

He  followed  her  to  the  path  beside  the  wall. 

"I  looked  for  you  from  here,"  she  said. 

"I  did  not  see  you." 

277 


THE  WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"No.  When  I  heard  the  boat  I — Robin,  I'm  afraid — 
I'm  afraid." 

"Of  me,  Viola?" 

He  laughed  joyously. 

"Take  ofif  your  veil,"  he  said. 

"No,  no — not  yet.    I  want  to  tell  you  first — " 

"To  tell  me  what?" 

"That  my — that  my — Robin,  I'm  not  beautiful  now." 

Her  voice  quivered  again. 

"You  tell  me  so,"  he  answered. 

"It's  true." 

"I  don't  believe  it.' 

"But,"  she  began,  almost  desperately,  "it's  true,  Robin, 
oh,  it's  true!    When  Fritz — " 

She  stopped.    She  was  choking. 

"Oh — Fritz!"  he  said  with  scathing  contempt. 

"No,  no,  listen!  You've  got  to  listen."  She  put  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  "When  Fritz  saw  me — afterwards  he 
— he  was  afraid  of  me.  He  couldn't  speak  to  me.  He 
just  looked  and  said — and  said — " 

Tears  were  running  down  behind  the  veil.  He  put 
up  his  hand  to  hers,  which  still  touched  his  arm. 

"Don't  tell  me  what  he  said.  What  do  I  care?  Viola, 
you  know  I've  almost  longed  for  this — no,  not  that,  but 
— can't  you  understand  that  when  one  loves  a  woman  one 
loves  something  hidden,  something  mystical?  It's  so 
much  more  than  a  face  that  one  loves.  One  doesn't  want 
to  live  in  a  house  merely  because  it's  got  a  nice  front 
door." 

He  laughed  again  as  if  he  were  half  ashamed  of  his 
own  feeling. 

"Is  that  true,  Robin?" 

The  sound  of  her  voice  told  him  that  he  need  not  be 
afraid  to  be  passionate. 

"Sit  down  here,"  he  said. 

278 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

They  had  reached  an  old  stone  bench  at  the  end  of 
the  garden  where  the  woods  began.  Two  cypresses  tow- 
ered behind  it,  sad-looking  sentinels.  There  was  a  gap 
in  the  wall  here  through  which  the  lake  could  be  seen  as 
one  sat  upon  the  bench. 

"I  want  to  make  you  understand,  to  make  you  trust 
me. 

She  sat  down  without  speaking,  and  he  sat  beside  her. 

"Viola,"  he  said,  "there  are  many  men  who  love  only 
what  they  can  see,  and  never  think  of  the  spirit  behind 
it.  They  care  only  for  a  woman's  body.  For  them  the 
woman's  body  is  the  woman.  I  put  it  rather  brutally. 
What  they  can  touch,  what  they  can  kiss,  what  they  can 
hold  in  their  arms  is  all  to  them.  They  are  unconscious 
of  the  distant,  untameable  woman,  the  lawless  woman 
who  may  be  free  in  the  body  that  is  captive,  who  may 
be  unknown  in  the  body  that  is  familiar,  who  may  even 
be  pure  in  the  body  that  is  defiled  as  she  is  immortal 
though  her  body  is  mortal.  These  men  love  the  flesh 
only.  But  there  are  at  least  some  men  who  love  the 
spirit.  They  love  the  flesh,  too,  because  it  manifests  the 
spirit,  but  to  them  the  spirit  is  the  real  thing.  They  are 
always  stretching  out  their  arms  to  that.  The  hearth 
can't  satisfy  them.  They  demand  the  fire.  The  fire, 
the  fire!"  he  repeated,  as  if  the  word  warmed  him.  "Fve 
so  often  thought  of  this,  imagined  this.  It's  as  if  I'd 
actually  foreseen  it." 

He  spoke  with  gathering  excitement. 

"What?"  she  murmured. 

"That  some  day  the  woman  men — those  men  I've 
spoken  of — loved  would  be  struck  down,  and  the  real 
woman,  the  woman  of  the  true  beauty,  the  mystic,  the 
spirit  woman,  would  be  set  free.  If  this  had  not  hap- 
pened you  could  perhaps  never  have  known  who  was 
the  man  that  really  loved  you — that  loved  the  real  you, 

279 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

the  you  that  Hes  so  far  beyond  the  flesh,  the  you  that  has 
sung  and  suffered —  " 

"Ah,  suffered!"  she  said. 

But  there  was  a  note  of  something  that  was  not  sorrow 
in  her  voice. 

"If  you  want  to  know  the  man  I  mean,"  Robin  said, 
"hft  up  your  veil,  Viola." 

She  sat  quite  still  for  a  moment,  a  moment  that  seemed 
very  long.  Then  she  put  up  both  hands  to  her  head, 
untied  the  veil  and  let  it  fall  into  her  lap.  He  looked  at 
her,  and  there  was  silence.  They  heard  the  bees  hum- 
ming. There  were  many  among  the  roses  on  the  wall. 
She  had  turned  her  face  fully  towards  him,  but  she  kept 
her  eyes  on  the  veil  that  lay  in  her  lap.  It  was  covered 
with  little  raised  black  spots.  She  began  to  count  them. 
As  the  number  mounted  she  felt  her  body  turning  gradu- 
ally cold. 

"Fifteen — sixteen — seventeen" — she  formed  the  words 
with  her  lips,  striving  to  concentrate  her  whole  soul  upon 
this  useless  triviality — "eighteen — nineteen — twenty." 

Little  drops  of  moisture  came  out  upon  her  temples. 
Still  the  silence  continued.  She  knew  that  all  this  time 
Robin  was  looking  into  her  face.  She  felt  his  eyes  like 
two  knives  piercing  her  face. 

"Twenty-one — twenty-two — " 

"Viola!" 

He  spoke  at  last  and  his  voice  was  extraordinary.  It 
was  husky,  and  sounded  desperate  and  guilty. 

"Well?"  she  said,  still  looking  at  the  spots. 

"Now  you  know  the  man  I  spoke  of." 

Yes,  it  was  a  desperate  voice  and  hard  in  its  des- 
peration. 

"You  mean  that  you  are  the  man?" 

Still  she  did  not  look  up.  After  a  pause  she  heard 
him  say, — 

280 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Yes,  that  I  am  the  man." 

Then  she  looked  up.  His  face  was  scarlet,  like  a 
face  flushed  with  guilt.  His  eyes  met  hers  with  a  staring 
glance,  yet  they  were  furtive.  His  hands  were  clenched 
on  his  knees.  When  she  looked  at  him  he  began  to 
smile. 

"Viola,"  he  said,  "Viola." 

He  unclenched  his  hands  and  put  them  out  towards 
her,  as  if  to  take  her  hands.    She  did  not  move. 

"Poor  Robin!"  she  said. 

"Poor — but — what  do  you  mean?"  he  stammered. 

He  never  turned  his  eyes  from  her  face. 

"Poor  Robin! — but  it  isn't  your  fault." 

Then  she  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his  gently. 

"My  fault?" 

"That  it  was  all  a  fancy,  all  a  weaving  of  words.  You 
want  to  be  what  you  thought  you  were,  but  you  can't 
be." 

"You're  wrong,  Viola,  you're  utterly  wrong — " 

"Hush,  Robin!  That  woman  you  spoke  of — that 
woman  knows." 

He  cleared  his  throat,  got  up,  went  over  to  the  wall, 
leaned  his  arms  upon  it  and  hid  his  face  on  them.  There 
were  tears  in  his  eyes.  At  that  moment  he  was  sufifering 
more  than  she  was.  His  soul  was  rent  by  an  abject 
sense  of  loss,  an  abject  sense  of  guilty  impotence  and 
shame.  It  was  frightful  that  he  could  not  be  what  he 
wished  to  be,  what  he  had  thought  he  was.  He  longed 
to  comfort  her  and  could  not  do  anything  but  plunge 
a  sword  into  her  heart.  He  longed  to  surround  her 
with  tenderness — yes,  he  was  sure  he  longed — but  he 
could  only  hold  up  to  her  in  the  sun  her  loneliness.  And 
he  had  lost — what  had  he  not  lost?  A  dream  of  years, 
an  imagination  that  had  been  his  inseparable  and  dearest 
companion.    His  loneliness  was  intense  in  that  moment 

281 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

as  was  hers.  The  tears  seemed  to  scald  his  eyes.  In 
his  heart  he  cursed  God  for  not  permitting  him  to  be 
what  he  longed  to  be,  to  feel  what  he  longed  to  feel. 
It  seemed  to  him  monstrous,  intolerable,  that  even  our 
emotions  are  arranged  for  us  as  are  arranged  the  events 
of  our  lives.    He  felt  like  a  doll,  a  horrible  puppet. 

"Poor  old  Robin!" 

She  was  standing  beside  him,  and  in  her  voice  there 
was,  just  for  a  moment,  the  sound  that  sometimes  comes 
into  a  mother's  voice  when  she  speaks  to  her  little  child 
in  the  dark. 

At  the  moment  when  he  knew  he  did  not  love  the 
white  angel  she  stood  beside  him. 

And  she  thought  that  she  was  only  a  wretched  woman. 


282 


XX 

ROBIN  had  gone.  He  had  gone,  still  protesting 
that  Lady  Holme  was  deceiving  herself,  protest- 
-  ing  desperately,  with  the  mistaken  chivalry  of 
one  who  was  not  only  a  gentleman  to  his  finger-tips  but 
who  was  also  an  almost  fanatical  lover  of  his  own  ro- 
mance. After  recovering  from  the  first  shock  of  his 
disillusion,  and  her  strange  reception  of  it,  so  different 
from  anything  he  could  have  imagined  possible  in  her, 
or  indeed  in  any  woman  who  had  lived  as  she  had,  he 
had  said  everything  that  was  passionate,  everything  that 
fitted  in  with  his  old  protestations  when  she  was  beau- 
tiful. He  had  spoken,  perhaps,  even  more  to  recall  him- 
self than  to  convince  her,  but  he  had  not  succeeded  in 
either  effort,  and  a  strange,  mingled  sense  of  tragic  sad- 
ness and  immense  relief  invaded  him  as  the  width  of 
water  way  grew  steadily  larger  between  his  boat  and 
Casa  Felice.  He  could  have  wept  for  her  and  for  him- 
self. He  could  even  have  wept  for  humanity.  Yet  he 
felt  the  comfort  of  one  from  whom  an  almost  intolerable 
strain  had  just  been  removed.  To  a  man  of  his  calibre, 
sensitive,  almost  feminine  in  his  subtlety,  the  situation 
had  been  exquisitely  painful.  He  had  felt  what  Viola 
was  feeling  as  well  as  what  he  was  feeling.  He  had 
struggled  like  a  creature  taken  in  a  net.  And  how  useless 
it  had  all  been!  He  found  himself  horribly  inferior  to 
her.  Her  behaviour  at  this  critical  moment  had  proved 
to  him  that  in  his  almost  fantastic  conception  of  her  he 
had  shown  real  insight.     Then  why  had  his  heart  be- 

283 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

trayed  his  intellect?  V/hy  had  his  imagination  proved 
true  metal,  his  affection  false?  He  asked  himself  these 
questions.  He  searched  his  own  nature,  as  many  a  man 
has  done  in  moments  when  he  has  found  himself  un- 
worthy. And  he  was  met  by  mystery,  by  the  "It  was 
impossible  for  me!"  which  stings  the  soul  that  would 
be  strong.  He  remembered  Carey's  words  that  night 
in  Half  Moon  Street  when  Sir  Donald  had  accompanied 
him  home  after  the  dinner  in  Cadogan  Square.  Sir 
Donald  had  gone.  He  and  Carey  were  alone,  and  he 
had  said  that  if  one  loves  one  loves  the  kernel,  not  the 
shell.  And  Carey  had  said,  "I  think  if  the  shell  is  a 
beautiful  shell,  and  becomes  suddenly  broken,  it  makes 
a  devil  of  a  lot  of  difference  in  what  most  people  think 
of  the  kernel."  And  when  he — Robin — had  replied,  "It 
wouldn't  to  me,"  Carey  had  abruptly  exclaimed,  "I  think 
it  would."  After  Carey  had  gone  Robin  remembered 
very  well  saying  to  himself  that  it  was  strange  no  man 
will  believe  you  if  you  hint  at  the  truth  of  your  true  self. 
That  night  he  had  not  known  his  true  self  and  Carey 
had  known  it.  But  then,  had  he  loved  the  shell  only? 
He  could  not  believe  it.  He  felt  bewildered.  Even 
now,  as  the  boat  crept  onward  through  the  falling  dark- 
ness, he  felt  that  he  loved  Viola,  but  as  someone  who  had 
disappeared  or  who  was  dead.  This  woman  whom  he 
had  just  left  was  not  Viola.  And  yet  she  was.  When 
he  was  not  looking  at  her  and  she  spoke  to  him,  the 
past  seemed  to  take  the  form  of  the  present.  When 
she  had  worn  the  veil  and  had  touched  him,  all  his  pulses 
had  leaped.  But  when  she  had  touched  him  with  those 
same  hands  after  the  veil  had  fallen,  there  had  been  frost 
in  his  veins.  Nothing  in  his  body  had  responded.  The 
independence  of  the  flesh  appalled  him.  It  had  a  mind 
of  its  own  then.  It  chose  and  acted  quite  apart  from 
the  spirit  which  dwelt  in  it.     It  even  defied  that  spirit. 

284 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

And  the  eyes?  They  had  become  almost  a  terror  to  him. 
He  thought  of  them  as  a  slave  thinks  of  a  cruel  master. 
Were  they  to  coerce  his  soul?  Were  they  to  force  his 
heart  from  its  allegiance?  He  had  always  been  accus- 
tomed to  think  that  the  spirit  was  essentially  the  govern- 
ing thing  in  man,  that  indestructible,  fierce,  beautiful 
flame  which  surely  outlives  death  and  time.  But  now 
he  found  himself  thinking  of  the  flesh,  the  corruptible 
part  of  man  that  mingles  its  dust  with  the  earth,  as 
dominant  over  the  spirit.  For  the  first  time,  and  because 
of  his  impotence  to  force  his  body  to  feel  as  his  spirit 
wished  it  to  feel,  he  doubted  if  there  were  a  future  for 
the  soul,  if  there  were  such  a  condition  as  immortality. 
He  reached  Villa  d'Este  in  a  condition  of  profound  de- 
pression, almost  bordering  on  despair. 

Meanwhile  Viola,  standing  by  the  garden  wall,  had 
watched  the  boat  that  carried  Robin  disappear  on  the 
water.  Till  it  was  only  a  speck  she  watched.  It  van- 
ished. Evening  came  on.  Still  she  stood  there.  She 
did  not  feel  very  sad.  The  strange,  dreamlike  sensation 
of  the  preceding  day  had  returned  to  her,  but  with  a 
larger  vagueness  that  robbed  it  of  some  of  its  former 
poignancy.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  felt  as  a  spirit 
might  feel — detached.  She  remembered  once  seeing  a 
man,  who  called  himself  an  "illusionist,"  displaying  a 
woman's  figure  suspended  apparently  in  mid-air.  He 
took  a  wand  and  passed  it  over,  under,  around  the  woman 
to  show  that  she  was  unattached  to  anything,  that  she 
did  not  rest  upon  anything.  Viola  thought  that  she  was 
like  that  woman.  She  was  not  embittered.  She  was  not 
even  crushed.  Her  impulse  of  pity,  when  she  under- 
stood what  Robin  was  feeling,  had  been  absolutely  genu- 
ine. It  had  rushed  upon  her.  It  remained  with  her. 
But  now  it  was  far  less  definite,  and  embraced  not  only 
Robin  but  surely  other  men  whom  she  had  never  known 

285 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

or  even  seen.  They  could  not  help  themselves.  It  was 
not  their  fault.  They  were  made  in  a  certain  way.  They 
were  governed.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  looked  out 
vaguely  over  a  world  of  slaves,  the  serfs  of  God  who 
have  never  been  emancipated.  She  had  no  hope.  But 
just  then  she  had  no  fear.  The  past  did  not  ebb  from 
her,  nor  did  the  future  steal  towards  her.  The  tides 
were  stilled.  The  pulses  of  life  were  stopped.  Every- 
thing was  wrapped  in  a  cold,  grey  calm.  She  had  never 
been  a  very  thoughtful  woman.  She  had  not  had  much 
time  for  thought.  That  is  what  she  herself  would  prob- 
ably have  said.  Seldom  had  she  puzzled  her  head  over 
the  mysteries  of  existence.  Even  now,  when  she  con- 
fronted the  great  mystery  of  her  own,  she  did  not  think 
very  definitely.  Before  Robin  came  her  mind  had  been 
in  a  fever.  Now  that  he  was  gone  the  fever  had  gone 
with  him.  Would  it  ever  return?  She  did  not  ask  or 
wonder. 

The  night  fell  and  the  servant  came  to  summon  her 
to  dinner.    She  shook  her  head. 

"The  signora  will  not  eat  anything?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

She  took  her  arms  from  the  wall  and  looked  at  the 
man. 

"Could  I  have  the  boat?" 

"The  signora  wishes  to  go  on  the  lake  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  will  tell  Paolo." 

Two  or  three  minutes  later  the  boy  who  had  sung 
came  to  say  that  the  boat  was  ready. 

Lady  Holme  fetched  a  cloak,  and  went  down  the 
dark  stone  staircase  between  the  lichen-covered  walls  to 
the  tall  iron  gate.  The  boat  was  lying  by  the  outer 
steps.    She  got  in  and  Paolo  took  the  oars. 

"Where  does  the  signora  wish  to  go?" 
286 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Anywhere,  out  on  the  lake." 

He  pushed  off.  Soon  the  noise  of  the  waterfall  behind 
Casa  Felice  died  away,  the  spectral  fagade  faded,  and 
only  the  plash  of  the  oars  and  the  tinkle  of  fishermen's 
bells  above  the  nets,  floating  here  and  there  in  the  lake, 
were  audible.  The  distant  lights  of  mountain  villages 
gleamed  along  the  shores  and  the  lights  of  the  stars 
gleamed  in  the  clear  sky. 

Now  that  she  was  away  from  the  land  Lady  Holme 
became  more  conscious  of  herself  and  of  life.  The  gentle 
movement  of  the  boat  promoted  an  echoing  mental  move- 
ment in  her.  Thoughts  glided  through  the  shadows  of 
her  soul  as  the  boat  glided  through  the  shadows  of  the 
night.  Her  mind  was  like  a  pilgrim,  wandering  in  a 
darkness  cast  by  the  soul. 

She  felt,  first,  immensely  ignorant.  She  had  scarcely 
ever,  perhaps  never,  consciously  felt  immensely  ignorant 
before.  She  felt  also  very  poor,  very  small  and  very 
dingy,  like  a  woman  very  badly  dressed.  She  felt, 
finally,  that  she  was  the  most  insignificant  of  all  the 
living  things  under  the  stars  to  the  stars  and  all  they 
watched,  but  that,  to  herself,  she  was  of  a  burning,  a 
flaming  significance. 

There  seemed  to  be  bells  everywhere  in  the  lake. 
The  water  was  full  of  their  small,  persistent  voices. 

So  had  her  former  life  been  full  of  small,  persistent 
voices,  but  now,  abruptly,  they  were  all  struck  into 
silence,  and  she  was  left  listening — for  what?  For  some 
far-oflf  but  larger  voice  beyond? 

"What  am  I  to  do?    What  am  I  to  do?" 

Now  she  began  to  say  this  within  herself.  The  grey 
calm  was  floating  away  from  her  spirit,  and  she  began 
to  realise  what  had  happened  that  afternoon.  She  re- 
membered that  just  before  Robin  came  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  that,  though  she  did  not  love  him,  he  held 

287 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

the  matter  of  her  Hfe  or  death  in  his  power.  Well,  if 
that  were  so,  he  had  decided.  The  dice  had  been  thrown 
and  death  had  come  up.  No  hand  had  been  stretched 
out  in  the  darkness  to  the  child. 

She  looked  round  her.  On  every  side  she  saw  smooth 
water,  a  still  surface  which  hid  depths.  At  the  prow  of 
the  boat  shone  a  small  lantern,  which  cast  before  the 
boat  an  arrow  of  light.  And  as  the  boat  moved  this 
arrow  perpetually  attacked  the  darkness  in  front.  It 
was  like  the  curiosity  of  man  attacking  the  impenetrable 
mysteries  of  God.  It  seemed  to  penetrate,  but  always 
new  darkness  disclosed  itself  beyond,  new  darkness 
flowed  silently  around. 

Was  the  darkness  the  larger  voice? 

She  did  not  say  this  to  herself.  Her  mind  was  not 
of  the  definite  species  that  frames  such  silent  questions 
often.  But,  like  all  human  beings  plunged  in  the  strange- 
ness of  a  terror  that  is  absolutely  new,  and  left  to  struggle 
in  it  quite  alone,  she  thought  a  thousand  things  that 
she  did  not  even  know  she  thought,  her  mind  touched 
many  verges  of  which  she  was  not  aware.  There  were 
within  her  tremendous  activities  of  which  she  was 
scarcely  conscious.  She  was  like  a  woman  who  wakes  at 
night  without  knowing  why,  and  hears  afterwards  that 
there  was  a  tumult  in  the  city  where  she  dwelt. 

Gradually,  along  devious  ways,  she  came  to  the  thought 
that  life  had  done  with  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  life 
said  to  her,  "Woman,  what  have  I  to  do  with  thee?" 
The  man  who  had  sworn  to  protect  her  could  not  endure 
to  look  at  her.  The  man  who  had  vowed  that  he  loved 
her  soul  shrank  before  her  face.  She  had  never  been  a 
friend  to  women.  Why  should  they  wish  to  be  her 
friends  now?  They  would  not  wish  it.  And  if  they  did 
she  felt  their  friendship  would  be  useless  to  her,  more — 
horrible.     She  would  rather  have  shown  her  shattered 

288 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

face  to  a  thousand  men  than  to  ten  women.  She  had 
never  "bothered"  much  about  rehgion.  No  God  seemed 
near  her  now.  She  had  no  sense  of  being  chastened  be- 
cause she  was  loved.  On  the  other  hand,  she  did  feel 
as  if  she  had  been  caught  by  a  torturer  who  did  not  mean 
to  let  her  go. 

It  became  obvious  to  her  that  there  was  no  place  for 
her  in  life,  and  presently  she  returned  to  the  conclusion 
that,  totally  unloved,  she  could  not  continue  to  exist. 

She  began  definitely  to  contemplate  self-destruction. 

She  looked  at  the  little  arrow  of  light  beyond  the 
boat's  prow.  Like  that  little  arrow  she  must  go  out  into 
the  darkness.  When?  Could  she  go  to-night?  If  not, 
probably  she  could  never  go  at  all  by  her  own  will 
and  act.  It  should  be  done  to-night  then,  abruptly, 
without  much  thought.  For  thought  is  dangerous  and 
often  paralysing. 

She  spoke  to  the  boat  boy.  He  answered.  They  fell 
into  conversation.  She  asked  him  about  his  family,  his 
life,  whether  he  would  have  to  be  a  soldier,  whether  he 
had  a  sweetheart.  She  forced  herself  to  listen  attentively 
to  his  replies.  He  was  a  responsive  boy  and  soon  began 
to  talk  volubly,  letting  the  oars  trail  idly  in  the  water. 
With  energy  he  paraded  his  joyous  youth  before  her. 
Even  in  his  touches  of  melancholy  there  was  hope.  His 
happiness  confirmed  her  in  her  resolution.  She  put 
herself  in  contrast  with  this  boy,  and  her  heart  sank 
below  the  sources  of  tears  into  a  dry  place,  like  the  valley 
of  bones. 

"Will  you  turn  towards  Casa  Felice — towards  the 
house  now,"  she  said  presently. 

The  boat  swung  round,  and  instantly  the  boy  began 
to  sing. 

"Yes,  I  can  do  it  to-night,"  she  thought. 
289 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

His  happy  singing  entered  like  iron  into  her  soul. 

When  the  pale  fa9ade  of  Casa  Felice  was  visible  once 
more,  detaching  itself  from  the  surrounding  darkness, 
she  said  to  the  boy  carelessly, — 

"Where  do  you  put  the  boat  at  night?" 

"The  signora  has  not  seen?" 

"No." 

"Under  the  house.  There  is  deep  water  there.  One 
can  swim  for  five  minutes  without  coming  out  into  the 
open." 

"I  should  like  to  see  that  place.  Can  I  get  out  of  the 
boat  there?" 

"Si,  signora.  There  is  a  staircase  leading  into  the 
piazza  by  the  waterfall." 

"Then  row  in." 

"Si,  signora." 

He  was  beginning  to  sing  again,  but  suddenly  he 
stopped,  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  listened. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"There  is  a  boat,  signora." 

"Where?" 

She  looked  into  the  darkness  but  saw  nothing. 

"Close  to  the  house,  signora." 

"But  how  do  you  know?" 

"I  heard  the  oars.  The  man  in  the  boat  was  not 
rowing,  but  just  as  I  began  to  sing  he  began  to  row. 
When  I  stopped  singing  he  stopped  rowing." 

"You  didn't  see  the  boat?" 

"No,  signora.    It  carries  no  light." 

He  looked  at  her  mysteriously. 

"It  may  be  the  contrahbandieri." 

"Smugglers?" 

"Yes." 

He  turned  his  head  over  his  shoulder  and  whistled, 
in  a  peculiar  way.    There  was  no  reply.    Then  he  bent 

290 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

down  over  the  gunwale  of  the  boat  till  his  ear  nearly 
touched  the  water,  and  listened. 

"The  boat  has  stopped.    It  must  be  near  us." 

His  whole  body  seemed  quivering  with  attentive  life, 
like  a  terrier's  when  it  stands  to  be  unchained. 

"Might  it  not  be  a  fisherman?"  asked  Lady  Holme. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"This  is  not  the  hour." 

"Some  tourists,  perhaps,  making  an  excursion?" 

"It  is  too  far.    They  never  come  here  at  night." 

His  eyes  stared,  his  attitude  was  so  intensely  alert  and 
his  manner  so  mysterious  that,  despite  her  desperate 
preoccupation.  Lady  Holme  found  herself  distracted  for 
a  moment.  Her  mind  was  detached  from  herself,  and 
fixed  upon  this  hidden  boat  and  its  occupant  or  occu- 
pants. 

"You  think  it  is  contrabbandierif"  she  whispered. 

He  nodded. 

"I  have  been  one,  signora." 

"You!" 

"Yes,  when  I  was  a  boy,  in  the  winter.  Once,  when 
we  were  running  for  the  shore,  on  a  December  night,  the 
carabinieri  fired  on  us  and  killed  Gaetano  Cremona." 

"Your  companion?" 

"Yes.  He  was  sixteen  and  he  died.  The  boat  was 
full  of  his  blood." 

She  shuddered. 

"Row  in,"  she  said.    "That  boat  must  have  gone." 

"Non,  signora.  It  has  not.  It  is  close  by  and  the 
oars  are  out  of  the  water." 

He  spoke  with  certainty,  as  if  he  saw  the  boat.  Then, 
reluctantly,  he  dipped  his  oars  in  the  lake,  and  rowed 
towards  the  house,  keeping  his  head  half  turned,  and 
staring  into  the  darkness  with  eyes  that  were  still  full  of 
mystery  and  profound  attention. 

291 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

Lady  Holme  looked  over  the  water  too,  but  she  saw 
nothing  upon  its  calm  surface. 

"Go  into  the  boat-house,"  she  said. 

Paolo  nodded  without  speaking.    His  lips  were  parted. 

"Chi  e  a?"  she  heard  him  whisper  to  himself. 

They  were  close  to  the  house  now.  Its  high,  pale 
front,  full  of  shuttered  windows,  loomed  over  them,  and 
the  roar  of  the  waterfall  was  loud  in  their  ears.  Paolo 
turned  the  boat  towards  his  right,  and,  almost  directly. 
Lady  Holme  saw  a  dark  opening  in  the  solid  stone 
blocks  on  which  the  house  was  built.  The  boat  glided 
through  it  into  cover,  and  the  arrow  of  light  at  the  prow 
pierced  ebon  blackness,  while  the  plash  of  the  oars  made 
a  curious  sound,  full  of  sudden  desolation  and  weariness. 
A  bat  flitted  over  the  arrow  of  light  and  vanished,  and 
the  head  of  a  swimming  rat  was  visible  for  a  moment, 
pursued  by  a  wrinkle  on  the  water. 

"How  dark  it  is  here,"  Lady  Holme  said  in  a  low 
voice.     "And  what  strange  noises  there  are." 

There  was  terror  in  the  sound  of  the  waterfall  heard 
under  this  curving  roof  of  stone.  It  sounded  like  a 
quantity  of  disputing  voices,  quarrelling  in  the  black- 
ness of  the  night.  The  arrow  of  light  lay  on  a  step, 
and  the  boat's  prow  grated  gently  against  a  large  ring 
of  rusty  iron. 

"And  you  tie  up  the  boat  here  at  night?"  she  asked 
as  she  got  up. 

"Si,  signora." 

While  she  stood  on  the  step,  close  to  the  black  water, 
he  passed  the  rope  through  the  ring,  and  tied  it  deftly 
in  a  loose  knot  that  any  backward  movement  of  the  boat 
would  tighten.  She  watched  with  profound  attention 
his  hands  moving  quickly  in  the  faint  light  cast  by  the 
lantern. 

292 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

"How  well  you  tie  it,"  she  said. 

He  smiled. 

"Si,  signora." 

"Is  it  easy  to  untie?" 

"Si,  signora." 

"Show  me,  will  you?  It — it  holds  so  well  that  I  should 
have  thought  it  would  be  difficult." 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  flash  of  surprise.  Some- 
thing in  her  voice  had  caught  his  young  attention  sharply. 
She  smiled  at  him  when  she  saw  the  keen  inquiry  in  his 
large  eyes. 

"I'm  interested  in  all  these  little  things  you  do  so 
well,"  she  said. 

He  flushed  with  pride,  and  immediately  untied  the 
knot,  carefully,  showing  her  exactly  how  he  did  it. 

"Thank  you.    I  see.    It's  very  ingenious." 

"Si,  signora.    I  can  do  many  things  like  that." 

"You  are  a  clever  boy,  Paolo." 

He  tied  the  knot  again,  unhooked  the  lantern,  jumped 
out  of  the  boat,  and  lighted  her  up  the  staircase  to  a 
heavy  wooden  door.  In  another  moment  she  stood  on 
the  piazza  close  to  the  waterfall.  The  cold  spray  from  it 
fell  on  her  face.  He  pushed  the  door  to,  but  did  not 
lock  it. 

"You  leave  it  like  that  at  night?"  she  asked. 

"Non,  signora.    Before  I  go  to  bed  I  lock  it." 

(IT     „„„    >J 

1  see. 

She  saw  a  key  sticking  out  from  the  door. 

"A  rivederci,  Paolo." 

"A  rivederci,  signora." 

He  took  oflf  his  hat  and  went  swiftly  away.  The  light 
of  the  lantern  danced  on  the  pavement  of  the  piazza,  and, 
for  one  instant,  on  the  white  foam  of  the  water  falling 
between  the  cypresses. 

When  Viola  was  alone  on  the  piazza  she  went  to  the 

293 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

stone  balustrade  and  looked  over  it  at  the  lake.  Was 
there  a  boat  close  by?  She  could  not  see  it.  The  chim- 
ing bells  of  the  fishermen  came  up  to  her,  mingling  with 
the  noise  of  the  cascade.  She  took  out  her  watch  and 
held  it  up  close  to  her  eyes.  The  hour  was  half-past 
nine.  She  wondered  what  time  Italian  servants  went  to 
bed. 

The  butler  came  out  and  begged  to  know  if  she  would 
not  eat  something.  He  seemed  so  distressed  at  her 
having  missed  dinner,  that  she  went  into  the  house,  sat 
down  at  the  dining  table  and  made  a  pretence  of  eating. 
A  clock  struck  ten  as  she  finished. 

"It  is  so  warm  that  I  am  going  to  sit  out  in  the 
piazza,"  she  said. 

"Will  the  signora  take  coffee?" 

"No — yes,  bring  me  some  there.  And  tell  my  maid 
— tell  the  servants  they  needn't  sit  up.  I  may  stay  out 
quite  late.  If  I  do,  I'll  lock  the  door  on  to  the  piazza 
when  I  go  in." 

"Si,  signora." 

When  she  reached  the  piazza  she  saw  a  shining  red 
spark  just  above  the  balustrade.  Paolo  was  there  smok- 
ing a  black  cigar  and  leaning  over  sideways. 

"What  are  you  looking  for?"  she  asked. 

"That  boat,  signora.     It  has  not  gone." 

"How  do  you  know?  It  may  have  gone  when  we 
were  in  the  boat-house." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You  could  not  have  heard  the  oars  through  the  noise 
of  the  waterfall." 

"Si,  signora.  It  has  not  gone.  Shall  I  take  the  boat 
and—" 

"No,  no,"  she  interrupted  quickly.  "What  does  it 
matter?    Go  and  have  supper." 

"I  have  had  it,  signora." 

294 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE    FAN 

"Then,  when  you  have  finished  smoking,  you'd  better 
go  to  bed." 

She  forced  herself  to  smile  lightly. 

"Boys  like  you  need  plenty  of  sleep." 

"Four  hours  is  enough,  signora." 

"No,  no.    You  should  go  to  bed  early." 

She  saw  an  odd  expression  come  into  his  face.  He 
looked  over  at  the  water,  then  at  her,  with  a  curious 
dawning  significance,  that  would  almost  have  been  im- 
pudent if  it  had  not  been  immensely  young  and  full  of 
a  kind  of  gnomish  sympathy. 

"Fll  go  to  bed,  signora!"  he  said. 

Then  he  looked  at  her  again  and  there  were  doubt 
and  wonder  in  his  eyes. 

She  turned  away,  with  a  sickness  at  her  heart.  She 
knew  exactly  what  he  had  thought,  was  thinking.  The 
suspicion  had  crossed  his  mind  that  she  knew  why  that 
hidden  boat  was  there,  that  she  wished  no  one  else  to 
suspect  why  it  was  there.  And  then  had  followed  the 
thought,  "Ma — per  questa  signora — non  e  possibile." 

At  certain  crises  of  feeling  a  tiny  incident  will  often 
determine  some  vital  act.  So  it  was  now.  The  fleeting 
glance  in  a  carelessly  expressive  boy's  eyes  at  this  mo- 
ment gave  to  Lady  Holme's  mind  the  last  touch  it  needed 
to  acquire  the  impetus  which  would  carry  it  over  the 
edge  of  the  precipice  into  the  abyss.  The  look  in  Paolo's 
eyes  said  to  her,  "Life  has  done  with  you.  Throw  it 
away."  And  she  knew  that  though  she  had  thought  she 
had  already  decided  to  throw  it  away  that  night,  she 
had  really  not  decided.  Secretly  she  had  been  hesitating. 
Now  there  was  no  more  hesitation  in  her.  She  drank 
her  coffee  and  had  the  cup  taken  away,  and  ordered  the 
lights  in  the  drawing-room  to  be  put  out. 

"When  I  come  in  I  shall  go  straight  up  to  bed,"  she 
said.    "Leave  me  a  candle  in  the  hall." 

295 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

The  lights  went  out  behind  the  windows.  Blank  dark- 
ness replaced  the  yellow  gleam  that  had  shone  upon 
them.  The  two  houses  on  either  side  of  the  piazza  were 
wrapped  in  silence.  Presently  there  was  a  soft  noise  of 
feet  crossing  the  pavement.  It  was  Paolo  going  to  lock 
the  door  leading  to  the  boat-house.  Lady  Holme  moved 
round  sharply  in  her  chair  to  watch  him.  He  bent 
down.  With  a  swift  turn  of  his  brown  wrists  he  secured 
the  door  and  pulled  the  key  out  of  the  lock.  She  opened 
her  lips  to  call  out  something  to  him,  but  when  she  saw 
him  look  at  the  key  doubtfully,  then  towards  her,  she 
said  nothing.  And  he  put  it  back  into  the  keyhole. 
When  he  did  that  she  sighed.  Perhaps  a  doubt  had 
again  come  into  his  young  mind.  But,  if  so,  it  had  come 
too  late.  He  slipped  away  smiling,  half  ironically,  to 
himself. 

Lady  Holme  sat  still.  She  had  wrapped  a  white  cloth 
cloak  round  her.  She  put  up  her  hand  to  the  disfigured 
side  of  her  face  and  touched  it,  trying  to  see  its  dis- 
figurement as  the  blind  see,  by  feeling.  She  kept  her 
hand  there,  and  her  hand  recognised  ugliness  vividly. 
After  two  or  three  minutes  she  took  her  hand  away,  got 
up  and  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  piazza,  very  near  to  the 
balustrade. 

Now  she  was  thinking  fiercely. 

She  thought  of  Fritz.  What  would  he  feel  when  he 
knew?  Shocked  for  a  moment,  no  doubt.  After  all, 
they  had  been  very  close  to  each  other,  in  body  at  least, 
if  not  in  soul.  And  the  memory  of  the  body  would 
surely  cause  him  to  suflfer  a  little,  to  think,  "I  held  it 
often,  and  now  it  is  sodden  and  cold."  At  least  he  must 
think  something  like  that,  and  his  body  must  shudder 
in  sympathy  with  the  catastrophe  that  had  overtaken  its 
old  companion.  She  felt  a  painful  yearning  to  see  Fritz 
again.     Yet  she  did  not  say  to  herself  that  she  loved 

296 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

him  any  more.  Even  before  the  accident  she  had  begun 
to  reaHse  that  she  had  not  found  in  Fritz  that  face  of 
truth  among  the  crowd  of  shams  which  all  women  seek, 
ignorantly  or  not.  And  since  the  accident — there  are 
things  that  kill  even  a  woman's  love  abruptly.  And  for 
a  dead  love  there  is  no  resurrection. 

Yet  to-night  she  felt  infinitely  tender  over  Fritz,  as  if 
she  stood  by  him  again  and  saw  the  bandage  darkened 
by  the  red  stain. 

Then  she  thought  of  the  song  she  had  sung  to  Lady 
Cardington,  the  song  which  had  surely  opened  the  eyes 
of  her  own  drowsy,  if  not  actually  sleeping,  heart: — 

"Tutto  al  mondo  h  vano, 
Ne  I'amore  ogni  dolcezza!" 

It  was  horribly  true  to  her  to-night.  She  could  imagine 
now,  in  her  utter  desolation,  that  for  love  a  woman  could 
easily  sacrifice  the  world.  But  she  had  had  the  world — 
all  she  called  the  world — ruthlessly  taken  from  her,  and 
nothing  had  been  given  to  her  to  fill  its  place.  Possibly 
before  the  accident  she  might  have  recoiled  from  the 
idea  of  giving  up  the  world  for  love.  But  now,  as  she 
walked  to  and  fro,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  a  woman  iso- 
lated from  everything  with  love  possessed  the  world  and 
all  that  is  therein.  Vaguely  she  remembered  the  story 
she  had  heard  about  this  very  house,  Casa  Felice.  There 
had  been  a  romance  connected  with  it.  Two  lovers  had 
fled  here,  had  lived  here  for  a  long  time.  She  imagined 
them  now,  sitting  together  at  night  in  this  piazza,  hear- 
ing the  waterfall  together,  looking  at  the  calm  lake 
together,  watching  the  stars  together.  The  sound  of  the 
water  was  terrible  to  her.  To  them  how  beautiful  it  must 
have  been,  how  beautiful  the  light  of  the  stars,  and  the 
lonely  gardens  stretching  along  the  lake,  and  the  dim 

297 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

paths  between  the  cypresses,  and  the  great  silence  that 
floated  over  the  lake  to  listen  to  the  waterfall.  And  all 
these  things  were  terrible  to  her — all.  Not  one  was 
beautiful.  Each  one  seemed  to  threaten  her,  to  say  to 
her,  "Leave  us,  we  are  not  for  such  as  you."  Well,  she 
would  obey  these  voices.  She  would  go.  She  wrapped 
the  cloak  more  closely  round  her,  went  to  the  balustrade 
and  leaned  over  it  looking  at  the  water. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  life  had  been  very  trivial. 
She  thought  now  that  she  had  never  really  enjoyed 
anything.  She  looked  upon  her  life  as  if  it  were  down 
there  in  the  water  just  beneath  her,  and  she  saw  it  as  a 
broken  thing,  a  thing  in  many  fragments.  And  the  frag- 
ments, however  carefully  and  deftly  arranged,  could 
surely  never  have  been  fitted  together  and  become  a  com- 
plete whole.  Everything  in  her  life  had  been  awry  as 
her  face  was  now  awry,  and  she  had  not  realised  it. 
Her  love  for  Fritz,  and  his — what  he  had  called  his,  at 
least — for  her,  had  seemed  to  her  once  to  be  a  round 
and  beautiful  thing,  a  circle  of  passion  without  a  flaw. 
How  distorted,  misshapen,  absurd  it  had  really  been. 
Nothing  in  her  life  had  been  carried  through  to  a  definite 
end.  Even  her  petty  struggle  with  Miss  Schley  had 
been  left  unfinished.  Those  who  had  loved  her  had  been 
like  spectres,  and  now,  like  spectres,  had  faded  away. 
And  all  through  their  spectral  love  she  had  clung  to 
Fritz.  She  had  clasped  the  sand  like  a  mad-woman,  and 
never  felt  the  treacherous  grains  shifting  between  her 
arms  at  the  touch  of  every  wind. 

A  sudden  passionate  fury  of  longing  woke  in  her  to 
have  one  week,  one  day,  one  hour  of  life,  one  hour  of 
life  now  that  her  eyes  were  open,  one  moment  only — 
even  one  moment.  She  felt  that  she  had  had  nothing, 
that  every  other  human  being  must  have  known  the 
dolcesza,  the  ineffable,  the  mysterious  ecstasy,  the  one 

298 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

and  only  thing  worth  the  having,  that  she  alone  had 
been  excluded,  when  she  was  beautiful,  from  the  partici- 
pation in  joy  that  was  her  right,  and  that  now,  in  her 
ugliness,  she  was  irrevocably  cast  out  from  it. 

It  was  unjust.  Suddenly  she  faced  a  God  without 
justice  in  His  heart,  all-powerful  and  not  just.  She 
faced  such  a  God  and  she  knew  Hell. 

Swiftly  she  turned  from  the  balustrade,  went  to  the 
door  by  the  waterfall,  unlocked  it  and  descended  the 
stone  staircase.  It  was  very  dark.  She  had  to  feel  her 
way.  When  she  reached  the  last  step  she  could  just 
see  the  boat  lying  against  it  in  the  black  water.  She 
put  out  her  hand  and  felt  for  the  ring  through  which  the 
rope  was  slipped.  The  rope  was  wet.  It  took  her  some 
minutes  to  undo  it.  Then  she  got  into  the  boat.  Her 
eyes  were  more  accustomed  to  the  darkness  now,  and 
she  could  see  the  arched  opening  which  gave  access  to 
the  lake.  She  found  the  oars,  pushed  them  into  the 
rowlocks,  and  pulled  gently  to  the  opening.  The  boat 
struck  against  the  wall  and  grated  along  it.  She  stood 
up  and  thrust  one  hand  against  the  stone,  leaning  over 
to  the  side.  The  boat  went  away  swiftly,  and  she  nearly 
fell  into  the  water,  but  managed  to  save  herself  by  a 
rapid  movement.  She  sank  down,  feeling  horribly 
afraid.  Yet,  a  moment  after,  she  asked  herself  why  she 
had  not  let  herself  go.  It  was  too  dark  there  under  the 
house.  Out  in  the  open  air  it  would  be  different,  it 
would  be  easier.  She  wanted  the  stars  above  her.  She 
did  not  know  why  she  wanted  them,  why  she  wanted 
anything  now. 

The  boat  slipped  out  from  the  low  archway  into  the 
open  water. 

It  was  a  pale  and  delicate  night,  one  of  those  autumn 
nights  that  are  full  of  a  white  mystery.  A  thin  mist 
lay  about  the  water,  floated  among  the  lower  woods. 

299 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

Higher  up,  the  mountains  rose  out  of  it.  Their  green 
sides  looked  black  and  soft  in  the  starlight,  their  sum- 
mits strangely  remote  and  inaccessible.  Through  the 
mist,  here  and  there,  shone  faintly  the  lights  of  the  scat- 
tered villages.  The  bells  in  the  water  were  still  ringing 
languidly,  and  their  voices  emphasised  the  pervading 
silence,  a  silence  full  of  the  pensive  melancholy  of  Nature 
in  decline. 

Viola  rowed  slowly  out  towards  the  middle  of  the 
lake.  Awe  had  come  upon  her.  There  seemed  a 
mystical  presence  in  the  night,  something  far  away  but 
attentive,  a  mind  concentrated  upon  the  night,  upon 
Nature,  upon  herself.  She  was  very  conscious  of  it,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  not  as  if  eyes,  but  as  if  a  soul  were 
watching  her  and  everything  about  her;  the  stars  and 
the  mountains,  the  white  mist,  even  the  movement  of  the 
boat.  This  concentrated,  mystical  attention  oppressed 
her.  It  was  like  a  soft,  impalpable  weight  laid  upon  her. 
She  rowed  faster. 

But  now  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  were  being  followed. 
Casa  Felice  had  already  disappeared.  The  shore  was 
hidden  in  the  darkness.  She  could  only  see  vaguely  the 
mountain-tops.  She  paused,  then  dipped  the  oars  again, 
but  again — after  two  or  three  strokes — she  had  the  sen- 
sation that  she  was  being  followed.  She  recalled  Paolo's 
action  when  they  were  returning  to  Casa  Felice  in  the 
evening,  leaned  over  the  boat's  side  and  put  her  ear 
close  to  the  water. 

When  she  did  so  she  heard  the  plash  of  oars — rhyth- 
mical, steady,  and  surely  very  near.  For  a  moment  she 
listened.  Then  a  sort  of  panic  seized  her.  She  remem- 
bered the  incident  of  the  evening,  the  hidden  boat, 
Paolo's  assertion  that  it  was  waiting  near  the  house,  that 
it  had  not  gone.  He  had  said,  too,  that  the  unseen 
rower  had  begun  to  row  when  he  began  to  sing,  had 

300 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

stopped  rowing  when  he  stopped  singing.  A  conviction 
came  to  her  that  this  same  rower  was  now  following  her. 
But  why?  Who  was  it?  She  knew  nobody  on  the  lake, 
except  Robin.    And  he — no,  it  could  not  be  Robin. 

The  plash  of  the  oars  became  more  distinct.  Her 
unreasoning  fear  increased.  With  the  mystical  atten- 
tion of  the  great  and  hidden  mind  was  now  blent  a  crude 
human  attention.  She  began  to  feel  really  terrified,  and, 
seizing  her  oars,  she  pulled  frantically  towards  the  middle 
of  the  lake. 

"Viola!" 

Out  of  the  darkness  it  came. 

"Viola!" 

She  stopped  and  began  to  tremble.  Who — what — 
could  be  calling  her  by  name,  here,  in  the  night?  She 
heard  the  sound  of  oars  plainly  now.  Then  she  saw  a 
thing  like  a  black  shadow.  It  was  the  prow  of  an  ad- 
vancing boat.  She  sat  quite  still,  with  her  hands  on 
the  oars.  The  boat  came  on  till  she  could  see  the  figure 
of  one  man  in  it,  standing  up,  and  rowing,  as  the  Italian 
boatmen  do  when  they  are  alone,  with  his  face  set 
towards  the  prow.  A  few  strong  strokes  and  it  was 
beside  her,  and  she  was  looking  into  Rupert  Carey's 
eyes. 


301 


XXI 

SHE  sat  still  without  saying  anything.  It  seemed 
to  her  as  if  she  were  on  the  platform  at  Man- 
chester House  singing  the  Italian  song.  Then  the 
disfigured  face  of  Carey — disfigured  by  vice  as  hers  now 
by  the  accident — had  become  as  nothing  to  her.  She 
had  seen  only  his  eyes.  She  saw  only  his  eyes  now. 
He  remained  standing  up  in  the  faint  light  with  the 
oars  in  his  hands  looking  at  her.  Round  about  them 
tinkled  the  bells  above  the  nets. 

"You  heard  me  call?"  he  said  at  last,  almost  roughly. 

She  nodded. 

"How  did  you — ?"  she  began,  and  stopped. 

"I  was  there  this  evening  when  you  came  in.  I  heard 
your  boy  singing.  I  was  under  the  shadow  of  the 
woods." 

"Why?" 

All  this  time  she  was  gazing  into  Carey's  eyes,  and 
had  not  seen  in  them  that  he  was  looking,  for  the  first 
time,  at  her  altered  face.  She  did  not  realise  this.  She 
did  not  remember  that  her  face  was  altered.  The  ex- 
pression in  his  eyes  made  her  forget  it. 

"I  wanted  something  of  you." 

"What?" 

He  let  the  oars  go,  and  sat  down  on  the  little  seat. 
They  were  close  to  each  other  now.  The  sides  of  the 
boats  touched.    He  did  not  answer  her  question. 

"I  know  I've  no  business  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said. 
"No  business  to  come  after  you.     I  know  that.     But  1 

302 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

was  always  a  selfish,  violent,  headlong  brute,  and  it 
seems  I  can't  change." 

"But  what  do  you  want  with  me?" 

Suddenly  she  remembered — put  up  her  hands  to  her 
face  with  a  swift  gesture,  then  dropped  them  again. 
What  did  it  matter  now?  He  was  the  last  man  who 
would  look  upon  her  in  life.  And  now  that  she  remem- 
bered her  own  condition  she  saw  his.  She  saw  the  terror 
of  his  life  in  his  marred  features,  aged,  brutalised  by 
excess.  She  saw,  and  was  glad  for  a  moment,  as  if  she 
met  someone  unexpectedly  on  her  side  of  the  stream  of 
fate.  Let  him  look  upon  her.  She  was  looking  upon 
him. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  repeated. 

"I  want  a  saviour,"  he  said,  staring  always  straight 
at  her,  and  speaking  without  tenderness. 

"A  saviour!" 

For  a  moment  she  thought  of  the  Bible,  of  religion, 
then  of  her  sensation  that  she  had  been  caught  by  a 
torturer  who  would  not  let  her  go. 

"Have  you  come  to  me  because  you  think  I  can  tell 
you  of  a  saviour?"  she  said. 

And  she  began  to  laugh. 

"But  don't  you  see  me?"  she  exclaimed.  "Don't  you 
see  what  I  am  now?" 

Suddenly  she  felt  angry  with  him  because  his  eyes 
did  not  seem  to  see  the  dreadful  change  in  her  appear- 
ance. 

"Don't  you  think  I  want  a  saviour  too?"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"I  don't  think  about  you,"  he  said  with  a  sort  of 
deliberate  brutality.  "I  think  about  myself.  Men  gener- 
ally do  when  they  come  to  women." 

"Or  go  away  from  them,"  she  said. 

She  was  thinking  of  Robin  then,  and  Fritz. 

303 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"Did  you  know  Robin  Pierce  was  here  to-day?"  she 
asked. 

"Yes.    I  saw  him  leave  you." 

"You  saw — but  how  long  have  you  been  watching?" 

"A  long  time." 

"Where  do  you  come  from?" 

He  pointed  towards  the  distant  lights  behind  her  and 
before  him. 

"Opposite.  I  was  to  have  stayed  with  Ulford  in  Casa 
Felice.    Fm  staying  with  him  over  there." 

"With  Sir  Donald?" 

"Yes.    He's  ill.    He  wants  somebody." 

"Sir  Donald's  afraid  of  me  now,"  she  said,  watching 
him  closely.  "I  told  him  to  live  with  his  memory  of  me. 
Will  he  do  that?" 

"I  think  he  will.  Poor  old  chap!  he's  had  hard  knocks. 
They've  made  him  afraid  of  life." 

"Why  didn't  you  keep  your  memory  of  me?"  she  said, 
with  sudden  nervous  anger.  "You  too?  If  you  hadn't 
come  to-night  it  would  never  have  been  destroyed." 

Her  extreme  tension  of  the  nerves  impelled  her  to 
an  exhibition  of  fierce  bitterness  which  she  could  not 
control.  She  remembered  how  he  had  loved  her,  with 
what  violence  and  almost  crazy  frankness.  Why  had 
he  come?  He  might  have  remembered  her  as  she 
was. 

"I  hate  you  for  coming,"  she  said,  almost  under  her 
breath. 

"I  don't  care.    I  had  to  come." 

"Why?    Why?" 

"I  told  you.  I  want  a  saviour.  I'm  down  in  the  pit. 
I  can't  get  out.    You  can  see  that  for  yourself." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I  can  see  that." 

"Give  me  a  hand,  Viola,  and — you'll  make  me  do 
something  I've  never  done,  never  been  able  to  do," 

304 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

"What?"  she  half  whispered. 

"Believe  there's  a  God — who  cares." 

She  drew  in  her  breath  sharply.  Something  warm 
surged  through  her.  It  was  not  like  fire.  It  was  more 
like  the  warmth  that  comes  from  a  warm  hand  laid  on  a 
cold  one.  It  surged  through  her  and  went  away  like  a 
travelling  flood. 

"What  are  you  saying?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"You  are  mad  to  come  here  to-night,  to  say  this  to  me 
to-night." 

"No.    It's  just  to-night  it  had  to  be  said." 

Suddenly  she  resolved  to  tell  him.  He  was  in  the 
pit.  So  was  she.  Well,  the  condemned  can  be  frank 
with  one  another  though  all  the  free  have  to  practise 
subterfuge. 

"You  don't  know,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  quiet 
now.  "You  don't  know  why  it  was  mad  of  you  to  come 
to-night.  I'll  tell  you.  I've  come  out  here  and  I'm  not 
going  back  again." 

He  kept  his  eyes  on  hers,  but  did  not  speak. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  out  here,"  she  said. 

And  she  let  her  hand  fall  over  the  side  of  the  boat 
till  her  fingers  touched  the  water. 

"No,"  he  said.    "You  can't  do  that." 

"Yes.  I  shall  do  it.  I  want  to  hide  my  face  in  the 
water," 

"Give  me  a  hand  first,  Viola." 

Again  the  warmth  went  through  her. 

"Nobody  else  can." 

"And  you've  looked  at  me!"  she  said. 

There  was  a  profound  amazement  in  her  voice. 

"It's  only  when  I  look  at  you,"  he  said,  "that  I  know 
there  are  stars  somewhere  beyond  the  pit's  mouth." 

"When  you  look  at  me — now?" 

"Yes." 

305 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

"But  you  are  blind  then?"  she  said. 

"Or  are  the  others  blind?"  he  asked. 

Instinctively,  really  without  knowing  what  she  did,  she 
put  up  her  hand  to  her  face,  touched  it,  and  no  longer 
felt  that  it  was  ugly.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  her 
that  her  beauty  was  restored. 

"What  do  you  see  ?"  she  asked.  "But — but  it's  so  dark 
here." 

"Not  too  dark  to  see  a  helping  hand — if  there  is  one," 
he  answered. 

And  he  stretched  out  his  arm  into  her  boat  and  took 
her  right  hand  from  the  oar  it  was  holding. 

"And  there  is  one,"  he  added. 

She  felt  a  hand  that  loved  her  hand,  and  there  was 
no  veil  over  her  face.  How  strange  that  was!  How 
utterly  impossible  it  seemed!  Yet  it  was  so.  No  woman 
can  be  deceived  in  the  touch  of  a  hand  on  hers.  If  it 
loves — she  knows. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Viola?" 

"I  don't  know." 

There  was  a  sound  almost  of  shame,  a  humble  sound, 
in  her  voice. 

"I  can't  do  anything,"  she  murmured.  "You  would 
know  that  to-morrow,  in  sunlight." 

"To-morrow  I'll  come  in  sunlight." 

"No,  no.    I  shall  not  be  there." 

"I  shall  come." 

"Oh! — good-night,"  she  said. 

She  began  to  feel  extraordinarily,  terribly  excited.  She 
could  not  tell  whether  it  was  an  excitement  of  horror, 
of  joy — what  it  was.  But  it  mounted  to  her  brain  and 
rushed  into  her  heart.  It  was  in  her  veins  like  an  in- 
toxicant, and  in  her  eyes  like  fire,  and  thrilled  in  her 
nerves  and  beat  in  her  arteries.  And  it  seemed  to  be  an 
excitement  full  of  passionate  contradictions.     She  was 

306 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

at  the  same  time  like  a  woman  on  a  throne  and  a  woman 
in  the  dust — radiant  as  one  worshipped,  bowed  as  one 
beaten. 

"Good-night,  good-night,"  she  repeated,  scarcely 
knowing  what  she  said. 

Her  hand  struggled  in  his  hand. 

"Viola,  if  you  destroy  yourself  you  destroy  two 
people." 

She  scarcely  heard  him  speaking. 

"D'you  understand?" 

"No,  no.  Not  to-night.  I  can't  understand  anything 
to-night." 

"Then  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  to-morrow — to-morrow." 

He  would  not  let  go  her  hand,  and  now  his  was  arbi- 
trary, the  hand  of  a  master  rather  than  of  a  lover. 

"You  won't  dare  to  murder  me,"  he  said. 

"Murder — what  do  you  mean?" 

He  had  used  the  word  to  arrest  her  attention,  which 
was  wandering  almost  as  the  attention  of  a  madwoman 
wanders. 

"If  you  hide  your  face  in  the  water  I  shall  never 
see  those  stars  above  the  pit's  mouth," 

"I  can't  help  it — I  can't  help  anything.  It's  not  my 
fault,  it's  not  my  fault." 

"It  will  be  your  fault.    It  will  be  your  crime." 

"Your  hand  is  driving  me  mad,"  she  gasped. 

She  meant  it,  felt  that  it  was  so.  He  let  her  go  in- 
stantly. She  began  to  row  back  towards  Casa  Felice. 
And  now  that  mystical  attention  of  which  she  had  been 
conscious,  that  soul  watching  the  night,  her  in  the  night, 
was  surely  profounder,  watched  with  more  intensity  as  a 
spectator  bending  down  to  see  a  struggle.  Never  before 
had  she  felt  as  if  beyond  human  life  there  was  life  com- 
pared with  which  human  life  was  as  death.     And  now 

307 


THE    WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

she  told  herself  that  she  was  mad,  that  this  shock  of 
human  passion  coming  suddenly  upon  her  loneliness  had 
harmed  her  brain,  that  this  cry  for  salvation  addressed 
to  one  who  looked  upon  herself  as  destroyed  had  deaf- 
ened reason  within  her. 

His  boat  kept  up  with  hers.  She  did  not  look  at  him. 
Casa  Felice  came  in  sight.  She  pulled  harder,  like  a 
mad  creature.  Her  boat  shot  under  the  archway  into  the 
darkness.  Somehow — how,  she  did  not  know — she 
guided  it  to  the  steps,  left  it,  rushed  up  the  staircase  in 
the  dark  and  came  out  on  to  the  piazza.  There  she 
stopped  where  the  waterfall  would  cast  its  spray  upon  her 
face.  She  stayed  till  her  hair  and  cheeks  and  hands  were 
wet.  Then  she  went  to  the  balustrade.  His  boat  was 
below  and  he  was  looking  up.  She  saw  the  tragic  mask 
of  his  face  down  in  the  thin  mist  that  floated  about  the 
water,  and  now  she  imagined  him  in  the  pit,  gazing  up 
and  seeking  those  stars  in  which  he  still  believed  though 
he  could  not  see  them. 

"Go  away,"  she  said,  not  knowing  why  she  said  it 
or  if  she  wished  him  to  go,  only  knowing  that  she  had 
lost  the  faculty  of  self-control  and  might  say,  do,  be 
anything  in  that  moment. 

"I  can't  bear  it." 

She  did  not  know  what  she  meant  she  could  not 
bear. 

He  made  a  strange  answer.    He  said, — 

"If  you  will  go  into  the  house,  open  the  windows  and 
sing  to  me — the  last  song  I  heard  you  sing — I'll  go. 
But  to-morrow  I'll  come  and  touch  my  helping  hand, 
and  after  to-morrow,  and  every  day." 

"Sing — ?"  she  said  vacantly.    "To-night!" 

"Go  into  the  house.  Open  the  window.  I  shall  hear 
you." 

He  spoke  almost  sternly. 

308 


THE   WOMAN    WITH    THE    FAN 

She  crossed  the  piazza  slowly.  A  candle  was  burn- 
ing in  the  hall.  She  took  it  up  and  went  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, which  was  in  black  darkness.  There  was  a 
piano  in  it,  close  to  a  tall  window  which  looked  on  to 
the  lake.  She  set  the  candle  down  on  the  piano,  went  to 
the  window,  unbarred  the  shutters  and  threw  the  window 
open.  Instantly  she  heard  the  sound  of  oars  as  Carey 
sent  his  boat  towards  the  water  beneath  the  window. 
She  drew  back,  went  again  to  the  piano,  sat  down, 
opened  it,  put  her  hands  on  the  keys.  How  could  she 
sing?  But  she  must  make  him  go  away.  While  he  was 
there  she  could  not  think,  could  not  grip  herself,  could 
not —  She  struck  a  chord.  The  sound  of  music,  the 
doing  of  a  familiar  action,  had  a  strange  effect  upon  her. 
She  felt  as  if  she  recovered  clear  consciousness  after  an 
anaesthetic.  She  struck  another  chord.  What  did  he 
want?  The  concert — that  song.  Her  fingers  found  the 
prelude,  her  lips  the  poetry,  her  voice  the  music.  And 
then  suddenly  her  heart  found  the  meaning,  more  than 
the  meaning,  the  eternal  meanings  of  the  things  unutter- 
able, the  things  that  lie  beyond  the  world  in  the  deep 
souls  of  the  women  who  are  the  saviours  of  men. 

When  she  had  finished  she  went  to  the  window.  He 
was  still  standing  in  the  boat  and  looking  up,  with  the 
whiteness  of  the  mist  about  him. 

"When  you  sing  I  can  see  those  stars,"  he  said.  "Do 
you  understand?" 

She  bent  down. 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  think  I  understand  anything,'* 
she  whispered.    "But — I'll  try — I'll  try  to  live." 

Her  voice  was  so  faint,  such  an  inward  voice,  that  it 
seemed  impossible  he  could  have  heard  it.  But  he 
struck  the  oars  at  once  into  the  water  and  sent  the  boat 
out  into  the  shadows  of  the  night. 

And  she  stood  there  looking  into  the  white  silence, 

309 


THE   WOMAN    WITH   THE   FAN 

which  was  broken  only  by  the  faint  voices  of  the  fisher- 
men's bells,  and  said  to  herself  again  and  again,  like  a 
v/ondering  child, — 

"There  must  be  a  God,  there  must  be;  a  God  who 
cares!" 


310 


I 


EPILOGUE 

IN  London  during  the  ensuing  winter  people  warmly 
discussed,  and  many  of  them  warmly  condemned,  a 
certain  Italian  episode,  in  which  a  woman  and  a 
man,  once  well-known  and,  in  their  very  different  ways, 
widely  popular  in  Society,  were  the  actors. 

In  the  deep  autumn  Sir  Donald  Ulford  had  died  rather 
suddenly,  and  it  was  found  in  his  will  that  he  had  left 
his  newly-acquired  property,  Casa  Felice,  to  Lady  Holme, 
who — as  everybody  had  long  ago  discovered — was  al- 
ready living  there  in  strict  retirement,  while  her  husband 
was  amusing  himself  in  various  Continental  towns.  This 
legacy  was  considered  by  a  great  number  of  persons  to 
be  "a.  very  strange  one ;"  but  it  was  not  this  which  caused 
the  gossip  now  flitting  from  boudoir  to  boudoir  and  from 
club  to  club. 

It  had  become  known  that  Rupert  Carey,  whose  un- 
fortunate vice  had  been  common  talk  ever  since  the 
Arkell  House  ball,  was  a  perpetual  visitor  to  Casa  Felice, 
and  presently  it  was  whispered  that  he  was  actually  living 
there  with  Lady  Holme,  and  that  Lord  Holme  was  going 
to  apply  to  the  Courts  for  a  divorce.  Thereupon  many 
successful  ladies  began  to  wag  bitter  tongues.  It  seemed 
to  be  generally  agreed  that  the  affair  was  rendered  pecu- 
liarly disgraceful  by  the  fact  that  Lady  Holme  was  no 
longer  a  beautiful  woman.  If  she  had  still  been  lovely 
they  could  have  understood  it!  The  wildest  rumours 
as  to  the  terrible  result  of  the  accident  upon  her  had 
been  afloat,  and  already  she  had  become  almost  a  legend. 
It  was  stated  that  when  poor  Lord  Holme  had  first  seen 

311 


THE    WOMAN   WITH    THE    FAN 

her,  after  the  operation,  the  shock  had  nearly  turned  his 
brain.  And  now  it  was  argued  that  the  only  decent 
thing  for  a  woman  in  such  a  plight  to  do  was  to  preserve 
at  least  her  dignity,  and  to  retire  modestly  from  the  fray 
in  which  she  could  no  longer  hope  to  hold  her  own. 
That  she  had  indeed  retired,  but  apparently  with  a  man, 
roused  much  pious  scorn  and  pinched  regret  in  those 
whose  lives  were  passed  amid  the  crash  of  broken  com- 
mandments. 

One  day,  at  a  tea,  a  certain  lady  animadverted  strongly 
upon  Lady  Holme's  conduct,  and  finally  remarked, — 

"It's  grotesque!  A  woman  who  is  disfigured,  and 
a  man  who  is,  or  at  anyrate  was,  a  drunkard!  Really 
it's  the  most  disgusting  thing  I  ever  heard  of!" 

Lady  Cardington  happened  to  be  in  the  room  and  she 
suddenly  flushed. 

"I  don't  think  we  know  very  much  about  it,"  she  said, 
and  her  voice  was  rather  louder  than  usual. 

"But  Lord  Holme  is  going  to — "  began  the  lady  who 
had  been  speaking. 

"He  may  be,  and  he  may  succeed.  But  my  sympa- 
thies are  not  with  him.  He  left  his  wife  when  she  needed 
him." 

"But  what  could  he  have  done  for  her?" 

"He  could  have  loved  her,"  said  Lady  Cardington. 

The  flush  glowed  hotter  in  the  face  that  was  generally 
as  white  as  ivory. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  in  the  room.  Then 
Lady  Cardington,  getting  up  to  go,  added,— 

"Whatever  happens,  I  shall  admire  Mr  Carey  as  long 
as  I  live,  and  I  wish  there  were  many  more  men  like  him 
in  the  world." 

She  went  out,  leaving  a  tense  astonishment  behind 
her. 

Her  romantic  heart,  still  young  and  ardent,  though 
312 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

often  aching  with  soirow,  and  always  yearning  for  the 
ideal  love  that  it  had  never  found,  had  divined  the  truth 
these  chattering  women  had  not  imagination  enough  to 
conceive  of,  soul  enough  to  appreciate  if  they  had  con- 
ceived of  it. 

In  that  Italian  winter,  far  away  from  London,  a  very 
beautiful  drama  of  human  life  was  being  enacted,  not 
the  less  but  the  more  beautiful  because  the  man  and 
woman  who  took  part  in  it  had  been  scourged  by  fate, 
had  suffered  cruel  losses,  were  in  the  eyes  of  many  who 
had  known  them  well  pariahs — Rupert  Carey  through  his 
fault.  Lady  Holme  through  her  misfortune. 

Long  ago,  at  the  Arkell  House  ball,  Lady  Holme 
had  said  to  Robin  Pierce  that  if  Rupert  Carey  had  the 
chance  she  could  imagine  him  doing  something  great. 
The  chance  was  given  him  now  of  doing  one  of  the 
greatest  things  a  human  being  can  do — of  winning  a 
soul  that  is  in  despair  back  to  hope,  of  winning  a  heart 
that  is  sceptical  of  love  back  to  belief  in  love.  It  was  a 
great  thing  to  do  and  Carey  set  about  doing  it  in  a 
strange  way.  He  cast  himself  down  in  his  degradation 
at  the  feet  of  this  woman  whom  he  was  resolved  to  help, 
and  he  said,  "Help  me!"  He  came  to  this  woman  who 
was  on  the  brink  of  self-destruction  and  he  said,  'Teach 
me  to  live!" 

It  was  a  strange  way  he  took,  but  perhaps  he  was 
right — perhaps  it  was  the  only  way.  The  words  he  spoke 
at  midnight  on  the  lake  were  as  nothing.  His  eyes,  his 
acts  in  sunlight  the  next  day,  and  day  after  day,  were 
everything.  He  forced  Viola  to  realise  that  she  was 
indeed  the  only  woman  who  could  save  him  from  the 
vice  he  had  become  the  slave  of,  lift  him  up  out  of  that 
pit  in  which  he  could  not  see  the  stars.  At  first  she 
could  not  believe  it,  or  could  believe  it  only  in  moments 
of  exaltation.    Lord  Holme  and  Robin  Pierce  had  ren- 

313 


THE   WOMAN   WITH    THE   FAN 

dered  her  terrified  of  life  and  of  herself  in  life.  She  was 
inclined  to  cringe  before  all  humanity  like  a  beaten  dog. 
There  were  moments,  many  moments  at  first,  when  she 
cringed  before  Rupert  Carey.  But  his  eyes  always  told 
her  the  same  story.  They  never  saw  the  marred  face  but 
always  the  white  angel.  The  soul  in  them  clung  to  that, 
asked  to  be  protected  by  that.  And  so,  at  last,  the  white 
angel — one  hides  somewhere  surely  in  every  woman — 
was  released. 

There  were  sad,  horrible  moments  in  this  drama  of  the 
Italian  winter.  The  lonely  house  in  the  woods  was  a 
witness  to  painful,  even  tragic,  scenes.  Viola's  love  for 
Rupert  Carey  was  reluctant  in  its  dawning  and  he  could 
not  rise  at  once,  or  easily,  out  of  the  pit  into  the  full 
starlight  to  which  he  aspired.  After  the  death  of  Sir 
Donald,  when  the  winter  set  in,  he  asked  her  to  let  him 
live  in  the  house  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  piazza  from 
the  house  in  which  she  dwelt.  They  were  people  of  the 
world,  and  knew  what  the  world  might  say,  but  they  were 
also  human  beings  in  distress,  and  they  felt  as  if  they 
had  passed  into  a  region  in  which  the  meaning  of  the 
world's  voices  was  lost,  as  the  cry  of  an  angry  child  is 
lost  in  the  vastness  of  the  desert.  She  agreed  to  his  re- 
quest, and  they  lived  thus,  innocently,  till  the  winter  was 
over  and  the  spring  came  to  bring  to  Italy  its  radiance 
once  more. 

Even  the  spring  was  not  an  idyll.  Rupert  Carey  had 
struggled  upward,  but  Viola,  too,  had  much  to  forget 
and  very  much  to  learn.  The  egoist,  spoken  of  by  Carey 
himself  one  night  in  Half  Moon  Street,  was  slow  to 
fade  in  the  growing  radiance  that  played  about  the 
angel's  feet.  But  it  knew,  and  Carey  knew  also,  that  it 
was  no  longer  fine  enough  in  its  brilliant  selfishness  to 
stand  quite  alone.  With  the  death  of  the  physical  beauty 
there  came  a  modesty  of  heart.    With  the  understanding, 

314 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

bitter  and  terrible  as  it  was,  that  the  great,  conquering 
outward  thing  was  destroyed,  came  the  desire,  the  im- 
perious need,  to  find  and  to  develop  if  possible  the  inner 
things  which,  perhaps,  conquer  less  easily,  but  which 
retain  their  conquests  to  the  end.  There  was  growth  in 
Casa  Felice,  slow  but  stubborn,  growth  in  the  secret 
places  of  the  soul,  till  there  came  a  time  when  not  merely 
the  white  angel,  but  the  whole  woman,  angel  and  that 
which  had  perhaps  been  devil  too,  was  able  to  accept  the 
yoke  laid  upon  her  with  patience,  was  able  to  say,  "I 
can  endure  it  bravely," 

Lord  Holme  presently  took  his  case  to  the  Courts. 
It  was  undefended  and  he  won  it.  Not  long  ago  Viola 
Holme  became  Viola  Carey. 

When  Robin  Pierce  heard  of  it  in  Rome  he  sat  for 
a  long  time  in  deep  thought.  Even  now,  even  after  all 
that  had  passed,  he  felt  a  thrill  of  pain  that  was  like  the 
pain  of  jealousy.  He  wished  for  the  impossible,  he 
wished  that  he  had  been  born  with  his  friend's  nature; 
that,  instead  of  the  man  who  could  only  talk  of  being, 
he  were  the  man  who  could  be.  And  yet,  in  the  past, 
he  had  sometimes  surely  defended  Viola  against  Carey's 
seeming  condemnation!  He  had  defended  and  not  loved 
— but  Carey  had  judged  and  loved. 

Carey  had  judged  and  loved,  yet  Carey  had  said  he 
did  not  believe  in  a  God.  Robin  wondered  if  he  believed 
now. 

Robin  was  in  Rome,  and  could  not  hear  the  words 
of  a  man  and  a  woman  who  were  sitting  one  night,  after 
the  marriage,  upon  a  piazza  above  the  Lake  of  Como. 

The  man  said, — 

"Do  you  remember  Robin's  'Danseuse  de  Tunisie'f" 

'The  woman  with  the  fan?" 

"Yes.  I  see  her  now  without  the  fan.  With  it  she 
was  a  siren,  perhaps,  but  without  it  she  is — " 

315 


THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   FAN 

"What  is  she  without  it?" 

"Eternal  woman.  Ah,  how  much  better  than  the 
siren!" 

There  was  a  silence  filled  only  by  the  voice  of  the 
waterfall  between  the  cypresses.  Then  the  woman  spoke, 
rather  softly. 

"You  taught  her  what  she  could  be  without  the  fan. 
You  have  done  the  great  thing." 

"And  do  you  know  what  you  have  done?" 

"I?" 

"Yes.  You  have  taught  me  to  see  the  stars  and  to 
feel  the  soul  beyond  the  stars." 

"No,  it  was  not  I." 

Again  there  was  a  silence.    Then  the  man  said, — 

"No,  thank  God — it  was  not  you." 


THE  END. 


316 


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